LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 



Sipqt 



Tfti-TO 



- 






UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



SELECTIONS 




IN VERSE. 






" As in the meadow the wheat is growing, 

So, sprouting and waving, in mortal souls 

Thoughts are growing. 

Aye ! but the soft inspirations of poets 

Are like the blue and crimson flowerets 

Blossoming amid them." 

Leland's Heine. 



v v 



OPY RIGHT. **, 



PHILADELPHIA: 

J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO. 
i88t. 



JUN 







Copyright, 1881, by J. B. LllTlNCOTT & Co. 



TO 
J. R. R. D. 

I DEDICATE 

" THIS NOSEGAY OF EVER-FRESH FLOWERS, WITH NOTHING OF 
MY OWN SAVE THE THREAD THAT TIES THEM." 



PREFACE. 



In this miscellaneous collection are many gems that 
have been hidden from all but discerning eyes during 
their short life in newspaper or magazine. Thought 
very lovely at the time, but too soon forgotten, because 
they were scattered, now and then some old-fashioned 
person will collect these tender things, which touch the 
heart and render it more alive to the beautiful. To 
me it has been a work of love, to recall these emana- 
tions of pure and sensitive minds. I trust that at this 
time, when the " Trinity of Art — poetry, music, and 
painting" — is so decidedly appreciated, my effort to 
increase the love of verse will not pass unnoticed. 

R. J. A. H. 



CONTENTS. 



POEMS ON NATURE. 

PAGE 

The First Warbler Hood's Magazine 13 

The First Flower Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 14 

The Spring Shower Living Age 14 

Early Morning Dean Trench 15 

Evening Dean Trench 15 

Voices of Spring Leland 's Heine 16 

Lucerne Spectator 18 

Dawnlight on the Sea Ada Cambridge 18 

The April Hours Chambers's yotirnal 20 

Before Sunrise Celia Thaxter 21 

Sunset Leland ' s Heine 23 

The Cloud All the Year Round 25 

Hymn to the Sun Thomas Hood. 26 

August on the Mountains Frances Ridley Havergal..... 27 

October Charles Edward Pratt 28 

The Hills Susan Doud?iey 28 

The Healing Snow J. R. R 30 

Midsummer Harper s Monthly 32 

Midwinter Atlantic Monthly 32 

Morning Eichendorf. 34 

Hymn Coleridge 35 

A Summer Day Celia Thaxter 38 

The Brook Lo?igfellow 41 

Music of the Wind Living Age 41 

One June Morning Frederick Langbridge 42 

Autumn Longfellow 45 

Frosty Weather Chambers's yournal 46 

Morning Shelley 47 

Mont Blanc Spectator 48 

March Susan Coolidge 48 

The Bird that Sung in May Unknown 50 

POEMS ON FLOWERS. 

Spring Wild Flowers Prof. Daniel Wilson, LL.D.. 52 

The Easter Decorations Ada Cambridge 53 

7 



CONTENTS. 



Consider the Lilies, how thev grow. Unknown 55 

Roadside Grasses Christina G. Rossetti 56 

To Violets Robert Hcrrick 56 

Trailing Arbutus Rose Terry 57 

Blossom-Time Unknown 59 

An Open Secret Mary A. Lathbury 60 

The Voice of the Grass Sarah Roberts 61 

A Song of Clover Saxe Holm 62 

Three Roses Adelaide A. Procter 63 

Violets Chambers's journal 64 

Golden-Rod Philadelphia Press 65 

To a Country Daffodil Violet Fane 67 

A City Weed Chambers's Journal 67 

La Flor del Salvador Overland Monthly 68 

Buttercups and Daisies Unknown 69 

The Daisy J. R. R 70 

The Faint Flower.. Mary A. Lathbury 71 

Sensitive-Plant Shelley 73 

The River-Lily Jean Ingelow 75 

Little Dandelion Unknown 76 

The Chrysanthemum Chambers's Journal 77 

Wall-Flowers Bishop Doane 78 

The Yellow-Bird's Nest James H. Hardy 78 



THE CHILDREN'S CORNER. 

A Nursery Song Living Age 80 

Sleep, Baby, Sleep From the German 82 

A Little Goose Eliza S. Turner 83 

Finding the Mittens The Churchman 85 

Little Goldenhair Unknown 87 

Tell it Again Susan Coolidge 89 

Baby Arithmetic Unknown 90 

Baby Marguerite Living Age 91 

The Redbreast Legend Unknown 91 

The Bluebell Unknown 94 

A Bird's Story E. H. 95 

To my Godchild Alice Miss Mulock 98 

Baby Bunn Unknown 99 

Little Maud T B. A Id rich 102 



CONTENTS. 9 
EMOTIONAL POEMS. 

PAGE 

Dedication to Idylls of the King.. Tennyson 103 

Each to his Own Carl Spencer 105 

Completeness Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 106 

Incompleteness Adelaide A. Procter 107 

A Legend of the Turtle Dove From the Danish 108 

One Day Christina G. Rossetti 109 

Maximus Adelaide A. Procter no 

Not Dead, but Risen Edwin Arnold. Ill 

The River of Time B. F. Taylor 114 

Joy yean Inge low 115 

Regret yean Ingelow 116 

The House and the Heart E. P. Sill. 117 

Over the River yames F. Hoffman 119 

The Golden Side Unknown 121 

Brought to Light All the Year Round 122 

Pride Unknown 126 

The Mysteries W. D. Howells 126 

The Days that are no More Tennyson 127 

A Lost Chord Adelaide A. Procter 128 

A Woman's Question Lena Lathrop 129 

Rest Christina G. Rossetti 131 

A Possibility Miss Mulock 131 

Friend Sorrow Adelaide A. Procter 132 

God's Acre Longfellow 133 

Gone Before Unknown „.. 134 

The Baby Providence yournal 135 

The Angels in the House Unknown 136 

Tired Mothers Mrs. Albert Smith 136 

A Valentine of the Elizabethan 

Age Unknown 138 

The Bells of Shandon Father Prout 140 

Janette Unknown 142 

A Beautiful Thought Bishop Doane 143 

A Face Unknown 144 

We Two yean Ingelow 144 

Day by Day Miss Mulock 145 

To-morrow Kate M. Sherwood. 146 

The Wonder of Death Edwin Arnold 147 

Prayer Dean Trench 150 

Untold Margaret E. Sangsler 150 



10 C0NTEN1S. 

PAGE 

Better Unsaid Unknown 151 

Dying From the German 152 

Only Chicago Tribune 153 

Overcast Harper s Weekly 154 

Tides H. H. 154 

Drawing Water Phosbe Cary 155 

Wreck H. H. 156 

A Mother's Heart MacMillaris Magazine 156 

The Shadows in the Valley Philada. Evening Bullet'm... 157 

In Memoriam E 159 

A Trust G. de B 159 

The New Name H. E. Warner 160 

A German Farewell Song Unknown 161 

A Message H. H. 162 

A Doubting Heart Adelaide A. Procter 163 

After the Storm Living Age 164 

Three Visions, Unknown 165 

Only a Child's Voice M. R. H 165 

God Knows Julia C. R. Dorr 167 

Requiem Julia Russell McMasters 168 

Song Celia Thaxter 170 

Sweetheart of Mine, Farewell Ed. Abbot. 170 

Parting Unknown 171 

Song Burns 172 

Heaven Nancy A. Sweet 173 

Guardian Angels Unknown 174 

The Autumn of Life Salvia 176 

Mater Dolorosa Mary K. Field '.... 178 

Treasures Kingswood Clare 179 

The Best Thing in the World Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 180 

A Passage in a Life Cornhill Magazine 181 

Inscription for a Spring Chambers's Journal 181 

Almost Overland Monthly 182 

Thought H. H. 183 

The Two Villages Rose Terry 183 

Song Living Age 185 

My Star Robert Browning 185 

After Unknown 186 

Prayer Tennyson 187 



" A hope has crossed me, in the course 
Of this self-pleasing exercise, that ye 
My zeal to his would liken who, possessed 
Of some rare gems, or pictures finely wrought, 
Unlocks his cabinet, and draws them forth, 
One after one, soliciting regard 
To this and this." 

Wordsworth. 



" Be sure no earnest work 
Of any honest creature, howbeit weak, 
Imperfect, ill-adapted, fails so much — 
It is not gathered as a grain of sand — 
To enlarge the sum of human action used 
For carrying out God's end. 

Whoever fears God, fears to sit at ease. 

Let us be content 
To do the thing we can, and not presume 
To fret because it's little." 

Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 



ii 



POEMS ON NATURE. 



THE FIRST WARBLER. 

Oh, how I love to listen to thy song, 
Sweet bird ! that, earliest of the choral throng, 
Pourest thy notes of gratitude and glee 
Ere blooms a flow'ret forth or buds a tree, — 
Ere yet is hushed the wintry howling wind, 
Or twig of green thy little feet can find ! 
So trustfully thy heart its love-song pours 
For hope alone of warmer, sunnier hours 
That I cry shame upon my thankless tears, — 
Shame on the heart that calls up phantom fears, 
Mindless of all but of its present grief, 
Nor finding in Hope's whisperings relief. 
Ah ! cease not, then, thy warbling ecstasy, 
Nor startle if thou meet my kindling eye ; 
For I would have thee ever in my way, 
That I might emulate thy cheerful lay. 

Hood's Magazine* 



13 



I 4 POEMS ON NATURE. 



THE FIRST FLOWER. 

Every child will love the year's first flower 
(Not certainly the fairest of the year, 
But in which the complete year seems to blow), — 
The poor sad snowdrop growing between drifts, 
Mysterious medium 'twixt the plant and frost; 
So faint with winter while so quick with spring, 
So doubtful if to thaw itself away 
With that snow near it. 

Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 



THE SPRING SHOWER. 

Away to the snug nook ! for the thick shower 
Rushes on stridingly. Ay, now it comes, 
Glancing among the leaves with its first drips 
Like snatches of faint music. Joyous thrush, 
It mingles with thy song, and beats soft time 
To thy bubbling shrillness. Now it louder falls, 
Pattering like the far voice of leaping rills ; 
And now it breaks upon the shrinking clumps 
With a crash of many sounds ; the thrush is still. 
There are sweet scents about us: the violet hides 
On the green bank; the primrose sparkles there; 
The earth is grateful to the teeming clouds, 
And yields a sudden freshness to their kisses. 
But now the shower slopes to the warm west, 



POEMS ON NATURE. 



T 5 



Leaving a dewy track ; and see, the big drops, 

Like falling pearls, glisten in the sunny mist. 

The air is clear again, and the far woods 

Shine out in their early green. Let's onward, then, 

For the first blossoms peep about our path, 

The lambs are nibbling the short dripping grass, 

And the birds are on the bushes. 

Living Age. 



EARLY MORNING. 

All the air was calm ; 
Audible humming filled it. At the roots 
Of peony-bushes lay rose-red heaps 
Or snowy fallen bloom. The crag-like hills 
Were tossing down their silver messengers, 
And two brown foreigners called cuckoo-birds 
Gave them good answer ; all things were mute; 
An idle world lay listening to their talk : 
They had it to themselves. 

Dean Trench. 



EVENING. 



One star is shining in the crimson eve, 
And the thin texture of the faint blue sky 
Above is like a veil intensely drawn ; 
Upon the spirit with a solemn weight 
The marvel and the mystery of eve 



1 6 POEMS ON NATURE. 

Is lying, as all holy thoughts and calm, 
By the vain stir and tumult of the day 
Chased far away, come back on tranquil wing 
Like doves returning to their noted haunts. 

Dean Trench. 



VOICES OF SPRING. 

Sweet May lies fresh before us, 
To life the young flowers leap, 

And through the heaven's blue o'er us 
The rosy cloudlets sweep. 

The nightingale is singing 

A down from leafy screen, 
And young white lambs are springing 

In clover fresh and green. 

I cannot be singing and springing: 

I lie on the grassy plot ; 
I hear a far-distant ringing ; 

I dream, and I know not what. 



Yes, all the trees are musical, 
Soft notes the nests inspire ; 

Who in the greenwood orchestra 
Leads off the tuneful choir? 

Is it yon gray old lapwing 

Who nods so seriously, 
Or the pedant who cries " Cuckoo !" 

In time unweariedly? 



POEMS ON NA TURE. 

Is it the stork who sternly, 
As though he led the band, 

Claps with his legs, while music 
Pipes sweet on either hand ? 

No; in my heart is seated 

The one who rules those tones ; 

As my heart throbs he times them, 
And Love's the name he owns. 



17 



In the wood all softly greeneth, 

As if maiden-like 'twould woo thee, 

And the sun from heaven smileth, 

"Fair young spring, a welcome to thee," 

Nightingale ! I hear thy singing 
As thou flutest, sweetly moving, 

Sighing long-drawn notes of rapture, 
And thy song is all of loving. 



Softly ring and through me spring 

The sweetest tones to-day ; 
Gently ring, small song of spring, — 

Ring out and far away. 

Ring and roam unto the home 

Where violets you see, 
And when unto a rose you come, 

Oh, greet that rose for me ! 

Leland's Heine. 
2* 



POEMS ON NATURE. 



LUCERNE. 

The lake beneath, and the city, 

And the quiet glorious hills 
Bending beneath the sunset 

With strong submissive wills. 

The mound above and the rampart, 
And the river that swiftly flows 

Between the walls to the meadows 
In the evening's deep repose. 

Three towers are set in the sunlight, 
And gleaming in burnished gold ; 

Over one the twilight is creeping : 
It stands in the shadow cold. 

Four stages of life recalling, 

Our birth, our love, our toil, 
And the last, that lies in the shadow 

And waits to receive the spoil. 

Spectator, 



DAWNLIGHT ON THE SEA. 

When I kneel down the dawn is only breaking ; 

Sleep fetters still the brown wings of the lark ; 
The wind blows pure and cold, for day is waking, 

But stars are scattered still about the dark. 



POEMS ON NATURE. 



] 9 



With open lattice looking out and praying, 
Ere yet the toil and trouble must be faced, 

I see a silvery glimmer straying, straying 

To where the faint gray sky-line can be traced. 

I see it slowly deepen, broaden, brighten, 

With soft snow-fringes sweeping to the land, — 

The sheeny distance clear and gleam and whiten, — 
The cool cliff-shadows sharpen on the sand. 

Some other sea the sunlight is adorning, 

But mine is fair 'neath waning stars and moon. 

friendly face ! O smile that comes at morning 

To shine through all the frowns that come at noon ! 

A beautiful wet opal, — pale tints filling 

A thousand shifting shadows, — day at length. 

The sweet salt breeze like richest wine is thrilling 
My drowsy heart and brain with life and strength. 

1 hear the voice of waters, — strong waves dashing 

Their white crests on the brown weed-sprinkled sod ; 
I hear the soft, continuous, measured plashing, — 
The pulse that vibrates from the heart of God, — 

The long wash of the tide upon the shingle, 
The rippling ebb of breakers on the shorej 

Wherewith my prayers are fain to blend and mingle, — 
Whereto I set my dreams for evermore. 

I hear the lap and swirl. I hear the thunder 
In the dark grotto where the children play, 

Where walls to keep the sea and cave asunder, 
And frail shell towers, were reared but yesterday. 



20 POEMS ON NATURE. 

The flood has filled my soul, and it is sweeping 
My foolish stones and pebbles out to sea, 

And floating in strange riches for my keeping: 
O friend ! O God ! I owe my best to thee ! 

The best of every day, its peace and beauty, 
From thy mysterious treasure-house is drawn ; 

Thou teachest me the grace of life and duty 
When we two walk together in the dawn. 

Ada Cambridge. 



THE APRIL HOURS. 

When the trees shake off their tears 
As a brave man does his fears, 
And the violets smile again 
Through the glistenings of rain ; 
And the primrose's pale star 
Looks up to where the angels are, 
Brightly between the scudding showers 
Dance the merry April hours. 

When the sheep-bells soothe and lull, 
And the buds are nearly full ; 
When the fair leaves of the rose 
Slowly to the sun unclose; 
When the larks through sun and rain 
Gladsome soar and sing again, 
And the thrushes on the leas 
Prate of summer's joy and ease, — 
Brightly then between the showers 
Dance the merry April hours. 

Chambers s yournal. 



POEMS ON NATURE. 2 i 



BEFORE SUNRISE. 

This grassy gorge, as daylight failed last night, 

I traversed toward the west, where, thin and young, 

Bent like Diana's bow and silver-bright, 
Half lost in rosy haze, a crescent hung. 

I paused upon the beach's upper edge : 
The violet east all shadowy lay behind ; 

Southward the light-house glittered o'er the ledge, 
And lightly, softly blew the western wind. 

And at my feet, between the turf and stone, 
Wild roses, bayberry, purple thistles tall, 

And pink herb-robert grew, where shells were strown, 
And morning-glory vines climbed over all. 

I stooped the closely-folded buds to note, 
That gleamed in the dim light mysteriously, 

While, full of whispers of the far-off rote, 
Summer's enchanted dusk crept o'er the sea. 

And sights and sounds and sea-scents delicate 
So wrought upon my soul with sense of bliss, 

Happy I sat as if at heaven's gate, 

Asking on earth no greater joy than this. 

And now, at dawn, upon the beach again, 
Kneeling I wait the coming of the sun, 

Watching the looser-folded buds, and fain 
To see the marvel of their day begun. 



22 POEMS ON NATURE. 

All the world lies so dewy fresh and still ! 

Whispers so gently all the water wide, 
Hardly it breaks the silence, from the hill 

Some clear bird-voices mingling with the tide. 

Sunset or dawn : which is the lovelier? Lo ! 

My darlings, sung to all the balmy night 
By summer waves and softest winds that blow, 

Begin to feel the thrilling of the light ! 

Red lips of roses waiting to be kissed 

By early sunshine, soon in smiles will break. 

But O, ye morning-glories, that keep tryst 
With the first ray of daybreak, ye awake ! 

O bells of triumph ringing noiseless peals 

Of unimagined music to the day ! 
Almost I could believe each blossom feels 

The same delight that sweeps my soul away. 

O bells of triumph ! delicate trumpets, thrown 

Heavenward and earthward, turned east, west, north, 
south, 

In lavish beauty, who through you has blown 

This sweet cheer of the morning with calm mouth ? 



l o 



'Tis God who breathes the triumph, — He who wrought 
The tender curves, and laid the tints divine 

Along the lovely lines ; the Eternal Thought 
That troubles all our lives with wise design. 

Yea, out of pain and death His beauty springs, 
And out of doubt a deathless confidence ; 

Though we are shod with leaden cares, our wings 
Shall lift us yet out of our deep suspense. 



POEMS ON NATURE. 



2 3 



Thou great Creator ! pardon us who reach 

For other heaven beyond this world of thine, — 

This matchless world, where Thy least touch doth teach 
Thy solemn lessons clearly line on line. 

And help us to be grateful, — we who live 
Such sordid, fretful lives of discontent, 

Nor see the sunshine nor the flower, nor strive 
To find the love Thy bitter chastening meant. 

Celia Thaxter. 



SUNSET. 



The sun in crimsoned glory falls 

Down to the ever-quivering, 

Gray and silvery world sea; 

Airy figures, warm in rosy light, 

Quiver behind, while eastward rising, 

From autumn-like darkening veils of vapor, 

With sorrowful death-pale features, 

Breaks the silent moon ; 

Like sparks of light behind her, 

Cloud-distant, glimmer the planets. 

Once there shone in heaven, 

Bound in marriage, 

Luna the goddess, and Sol, the god, 

And the bright thronging stars in light swam round them, 

Their little and innocent children. 



24 POEMS ON NATURE. 

But evil tongues came whisp'ring quarrels, 

And they parted in anger, 

The mighty, light-giving spouses. 

Now, day by day, in loneliest light 

The sun-god walks yonder on high, 

All for his lordliness, 

Ever prayed to and sung by many, 

By haughty, heartless, prosperous mortals ; 

But still by night 

In heaven, wanders Luna, 

The wrecked mother 

With all her orphaned starry children, 

And she shines in silent sorrow, 

And soft, loving maidens and gentle poets 

Offer their songs and their sorrows. 

The tender Luna ! woman at heart, 
Ever she loveth her beautiful lord, 
And at evening, trembling and pale, 
Out she peeps from light cloud-curtains, 
And looks to the lost one in sorrow. 
Fain would she cry in anguish : " Come ! 
Come, the children are longing for thee !" 
In vain : the haughty-souled god of fire, 
Flashes forth at the sight of pale Luna, 
In doubly deep purple, 
For rage and pain ; 
And yielding he hastens him down 
To his ocean-chilled and lonely bed. 

Leland's Heine. 



POEMS ON NATURE. 



25 



THE CLOUD. 

A cloud came over a land of leaves 

(Oh, hush, little leaves, lest it pass you by !) : 

How they had waited and watch'd for the rain, 

Mountain and valley and vineyard and plain, 
With never a sign from the sky ! 

Day after day had the pitiless sun 
Look'd down with a lidless eye. 

But now, on a sudden, a whisper went 

Through the topmost twigs of the poplar spire ; 

Out of the east a light wind blew 

(All the leaves trembled, and murmur'd and drew 
Hope to the help of desire) : 

It stirred the faint pulse of the forest-tree 

And breathed through the brake and the brier. 

Slowly the cloud came ; then the wind died : 
Dumb lay the land in its hot suspense. 

The thrush on the elm-bough suddenly stopped, 

Theweather-warn'd swallow in mid-flying dropped, 
The linnet ceased song in the fence. 

Mute the cloud moved till it hung overhead, 
Heavy, big-bosom'd, and dense. 

•?$• y^ yf. 3j» j^c 

Ah ! the cool rush through the dry-tongued trees, 
The patter and plash on the thirsty earth, 
3 



26 POEMS ON NATURE. 

The eager bubbling of runnel and rill, 

The lisping of leaves that have drunk their fill, 

The freshness that follows the dearth ! 
New life for the woodland, the vineyard, the vale, 

New life with the world's new birth ! 

All the Year Round 



HYMN TO THE SUN. 

Giver of glowing light ! 
Though but a god of other days, 
The kings and sages 
Of wiser ages 
Still live and gladden in thy genial rays. 

King of the tuneful lyre ! 

Still poets' hymns to thee belong ; 

Though lips are cold 

Whereon of old 
Thy beams all turn'd to worshipping and song 

Lord of the dreadful bow, 

None triumph now for Python's death ; 

But thou dost save 

From hungry grave 
The life that hangs upon a summer breath. 

Father of rosy day, 

No more thy clouds of incense rise ; 

But waking flow'rs 

At morning hours 
Give out their sweets to meet thee in the skies. 



POEMS ON NATURE. 27 

God of the Delphic fane, 
No more thou listenest to hymns sublime; 
But they will leave 
On winds at eve, 
A solemn echo to the end of time. 

Thomas Hood. 



AUGUST ON THE MOUNTAINS. 

There is sultry gloom on the mountain's brow, 

And a sultry glow beneath ; 
Oh, for a breeze from the western sea, 
Soft and reviving, sweet and free, 
Over the shadowless hill and lea, 

Over the barren heath. 

There are clouds and darkness around God's ways, 

And the noon of life grows hot ; 
And though His faithfulness standeth fast 
As the mighty mountains, a shroud is cast 
Over the glory, solemn and vast, 

Veiling but changing it not. 

Send a sweet breeze from Thy sea, O Lord, 

From Thy deep, deep sea of love ; 
Though it lift not the veil from the cloudy height, 
Let the brow grow cool and the footsteps light, 
As it comes with holy and soothing might, 

Like the wing of a snowy dove. 

Frances Ridley Havergal, in Sunday Magazine. 



28 POEMS ON NATURE. 



OCTOBER. 

With royal pomp as queenly as of old, 
Resplendently attired in jewelled dress, 
Magnificent in perfect loveliness, 

October reigns supreme; her stores of gold 
She scatters lavishly ; at her caress 
The forests crimson blush as if to bless 

Her gracious presence ; cunningly she weaves 

Most gorgeous tapestries of shining leaves 
In pattern that is exquisitely fair 
To decorate her woodland halls most rare 

With hangings rainbow-hued ; the distant hills 
Are luminous with light ; and wondrous grand 

As if for some great festival she fills 

With lustrous forms of beauty all the land. 
Charles Edward Pratt, in the Boston Journal. 



THE HILLS. 

" On every height there lies repose." — Goethe. 

Come, for the mists are rising from the vale, 

Like clouds of incense from a shrine of prayer ; 
Come up among the hills : the free strong gale 
Is blowing freshly there. 



POEMS ON NATURE. 



29 



There blooms the purple heather in its prime, 

There hums the wild-bee in its happy flight, 
There sound the sheep-bells like a fairy chime 
Drifting from height to height. 

There float the light cloud-shadows, and the blue 

Of the eternal dome above is nigh ; 
There are no leafy boughs to screen from view 
That arch of sapphire sky. 

Come, for the wild free solitude is sweet, 

And far below shall lie the world of care ; 
No sound of strife, no tramp of restless feet 
Can ever reach thee there. 

Come, when thy soul within thee is opprest 

With vain misgivings and with musings sad, 
For in the sense of freedom there is rest : 
The hills shall make thee glad. 

Come, for each breath inspires some lofty thought 

When the pure mountain-air thy spirit fills; 
The lessons that the ancient sages taught 
Were learned among the hills. 

Susan Doudney. 



3° 



POEMS OX NATURE. 



THE HEALING SNOW. 

Softly fall the fairy snow-flakes, 

Clothing naked branch and tree 
With a mantle light and downy, 

Robe of meekest purity. 
Softly o'er my heart there stealeth, 

Gently as the snow-flake white, 
Peace with mantle pure and holy, 

Filling me with happy light. 

Snow-flake, thou an emblem seemeth, 

Falling thus so noiseless down, 
Folding in thy kindly beauty 

Darkness made by Winter's frown. 
So to me sweet peace is coming 

Quiet as a snow-flake's step, 
Hiding with its heaven-wrought beauty 

Sorrows I would fain forget. 

One by one, like memory's whispers, 

Or like blessings from above, 
Float the snow-flakes white as angels 

Bringing messages of love. 
One by one from heavenly portals 

Peaceful echoes come to me, 
Soothing from my soul each murmur 

Prophesying rest to be. 



POEMS ON NATURE. 

Down thou liest, lowly snow-flake, 

Pitying earth's deformity, 
Sparkling in the bursting sunshine, 

Smiling in thy charity. 
So in peace my spirit resteth, 

Clad in glory not its own, 
Gladly waiting, hoping, trusting, 

Soon to know as I am known. 

To find a higher home, meek snow-flake, 

Soon thy mission it will be : 
Sun and tender breeze both wooing, 

Star and cloud will welcome thee. 
So, my soul, if peace thou keepest, 

Thou mayst reach a perfect land : 
Righteousness, a sun, will lead thee, 

Guiding on to God's right hand. 

Peace doth flow there as a river ; 

God Himself that land doth light ; 
Sin and death there cease defacing 

Garments new and snowy white. 
Holy welcomes there will greet thee, 

Prayers for peace thou'lt need no more; 
Pray while waiting ! wait while praying ! 

Time will waft thee to that shore. 

. J. R. R. 



3 1 



3 2 



POEMS ON NATURE. 



MIDSUMME R. 

It is midsummer, the sweet midsummer : 

Poor daffodil-blossom, what's that to thee? 
Thou hast no part in its golden glow, — 
Thy time of blooming was long ago ; 

Thou hast no share in its silver dew, — 

It will not wake thee to life anew. 

What sadder fate can the autumn bring 
Than summer does to a flower of spring? 

It is midsummer, my life's midsummer: 
My sorrowing heart, what's that to thee? 
Its joys are things that I cannot share, 
'Tis not for me that its days are fair ; 
For love for me was an April flower, 
Whose beauty went with the passing hour. 
What sadder fate can the autumn bring 
Than summer does to a flower of spring? 

Harper's Monthly 



MIDWINTER. 



The speckled sky is dim with snow, 
The light flakes falter and fall slow ; 
Athwart the hill-top, rapt and pale, 
Silently drops a silvery veil ; 



POEMS ON NATURE. 33 

The far-off mountain's misty form 
Is entering now a tent of storm ; 
And all the valley is shut in 
By flickering curtains gray and thin. 

But cheerily the chickadee 
Singeth to me on fence and tree ; 
The snow sails round him as he sings 
White as the down of angels' wings. 

I watch the snow-flakes as they fall 
On bank and brier and broken wall ; 
Over the orchard, waste and brown, 
All noiselessly they settle down, 
Tipping the apple-boughs and each 
Light quivering twig of plum and peach. 

On turf and curb and bower-roof 
The snow-storm spreads its ivory woof; 
It paves with pearl the garden -walk, 
And lovingly round tattered stalk 
And shivering stem its magic weaves 
A mantle fair as lily-leaves. 

The hooded bee-hive, small and low, 
Stands like a' maiden in the snow, 
And the old door-slab is half hid 
Under an alabaster lid. 

All day it snows : the sheeted post 
Gleams in the dimness like a ghost ; 
All day the blasted oak has stood 
A muffled wizard of the wood ; 



34 POEMS ON NATURE. 

Garland and airy cap adorn 
The sumach and the wayside thorn, 
And clustering spangles lodge and shine 
In the dark tresses of the pine. 

The ragged bramble, dwarfed and old, 
Shrinks like a beggar in the cold ; 
In surplice white the cedar stands, 
And blesses him with priestly hands. 

Still cheerily the chickadee 
Singeth to me on fence and tree ; 
But in my inmost ear is heard 
The music of a holier bird ; 
And heavenly thoughts as soft and white 
As snow-flakes on my soul alight, 
Clothing with love my lonely heart, 
Healing with peace each bruised part, 
Till all my being seems to be 
Transfigured by their purity. 

Atlantic Monthly. 



MORNING. 



O silence deep and strange ! 

The earth doth yet in quiet slumbers lie, 
Nor stir of life, save, on yon woodland range, 

The tall trees bow as if their Lord passed by 



POEMS ON NATURE. 35 

Like to one new-create 

I have no memory of grief and care ; 
Of all things which vexed my soul of late 

I am ashamed in this calm morning air. 

ElCHENDORF. 



HYMN. 

Before sunrise in the Vale of Chamouni. 

Hast thou a charm to stay the morning star 
In his steep course ? So long he seems to pause 
On thy bald, awful head, O sovereign Blanc ! 
The Arve and Arveiron at thy base 
Rave ceaselessly, but thou, most awful Form 
Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines 
How silently ! Around thee and above 
Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black, — 
An ebon mass. Methinks thou piercest it, 
As with a wedge ! But when I look again 
It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine, 
Thy habitation from eternity ! 

dread and silent mount ! I gazed upon thee, 
Till thou, still present to the bodily sense, 

Didst vanish from my thought. Entranced in prayer 

1 worshipped the Invisible alone. 

Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody, 
So sweet we know not we are listening to it, 
Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my thought- 
Yea, with my life and life's own secret joy — 
Till the dilating soul, enrapt, transfused 



3 6 POEMS ON NATURE. 

Into the mighty vision passing, there, 

As in her natural form, swelled vast to heaven ! 

Awake, my soul ! not only passive praise 

Thou owest ; not alone these swelling tears, 

Mute thanks and secret ecstasy ! Awake, 

Voice of sweet song ! Awake, my heart, awake ! 

Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my hymn. 

Thou first and chief, sole sovereign of the vale ! 

Oh, struggling with the darkness all the night, 

And visited all night by troops of stars, 

Or when they climb the sky or when they sink, — 

Companion of the morning star at dawn, 

Thyself earth's rosy star, and of the dawn 

Co-herald, — wake, oh wake, and utter praise ! 

Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in earth ? 

Who filled thy countenance with rosy light? 

Who made thee parent of perpetual streams? 

And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad ! 

Who called you forth from night and utter death, 

From dark and icy caverns called you forth, 

Down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks, 

Forever shattered and the same forever? 

Who gave you your invulnerable life, 

Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy, 

Unceasing thunder and eternal foam? 

Who commanded (and the silence came) 

Here let the billows stiffen and have rest ? 

Ye ice-falls ! ye that from the mountain's brow 

Adown enormous ravines slope amain, — 

Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice, 

And stopped at once amid their maddest plunge, — 

Motionless torrents ! silent cataracts ! 

Who made you glorious as the gates of heaven 



POEMS ON NATURE. 



37 



Beneath the keen full moon ? Who bade the sun 

Clothe you with rainbows? Who with living flowers 

Of loveliest blue spread garlands at your feet? 

God ! Let the torrents, like a shout of nations, 

Answer, and let the ice-plains echo, God ! 

God ! sing, ye meadow-streams, with gladsome voice ! 

Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds ! 

And they too have a voice, yon piles of snow, 

And in their perilous fall shall thunder, God ! 

Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost ! 

Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's nest ! 

Ye eagles, playmates. of the mountain-storm ! 

Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds ! 

Ye signs and wonders of the elements ! 

Utter forth, God ! and fill the hills with praise. 

Thou too, hoar Mount ! with thy sky-pointing peaks, 

Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard, 

Shoots downward, glittering through the pure serene 

Into the depth of clouds that veil thy breast, — 

Thou too again, stupendous Mountain ! thou, 

That as I raise my head, awhile bowed low 

In adoration, upwards from thy base 

Slow travelling with dim eyes suffused with tears, 

Solemnly seemest, like a vapory cloud, 

To rise before me. Rise, oh ever rise ! 

Rise like a cloud of incense from the earth ! 

Thy kingly spirit throned among the hills, 

Thou dread ambassador from earth to heaven, 

Great Hierarch ! tell thou the silent sky, 

And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun, 

Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God. 

Coleridge. 
4 



38 POEMS ON NATURE. 



A SUMMER DAY. 

At daybreak, in the fresh light, joyfully 

The fishermen drew in their laden net ; 
The shore shone rosy purple, and the sea 
Was streaked with violet. 

And, pink with sunrise, many a shadowy sail 

Lay southward, lighting up the sleeping bay, 
And in the west the white moon, still and pale, 
Faded before the day. 

Silence was everywhere. The rising tide 

Slowly filled every cove and inlet small : 
A musical low whisper multiplied 

You heard, and that was all. 

No clouds at dawn ; but, as the sun climbed higher, 
White columns, thunderous, splendid, up the sky 
Floated and stood, heaped in the sun's clear fire, 
A stately company. 

Stealing along the coast from cape to cape, 
The weird mirage crept tremulously on, 
In many a magic change and wondrous shape 
Throbbing beneath the sun. 



*& 



At noon the wind rose, swept the glassy sea 

To sudden ripple, thrust against the clouds 
A strenuous shoulder ; gathering steadily, 
Drove them in crowds, 



POEMS ON NATURE. 



39 



Till all the west was dark, and inky-black 

The level water ruffled underneath, 
And up the wind-cloud tossed, a ghostly rack, 
In many a ragged wreath. 

Then sudden roared the thunder, a great peal 

Magnificent, that broke and rolled away; 
And down the wind plunged, like a furious keel 
Cleaving the sea to spray, 

And brought the rain sweeping o'er land and sea. 

And then was tumult ! Lightning sharp and keen, 
Thunder, wind, rain, — a mighty jubilee 

The heaven and earth between ! 

And loud the ocean sang, — a chorus grand, 

A solemn music sung in undertone 
Of waves that broke about, on either hand, 
The little island lone 

Where, joyful in His tempest as His calm, 
Held in the hollow of that hand of His, 
I joined with heart and soul in God's great psalm, 
Thrilled with a nameless bliss. 

Soon lulled the wind ; the summer storm soon died ; 
The shattered clouds went eastward, drifting slow; 
From the low sun the rain-fringe swept aside, 
Bright in his rosy glow. 

And wide a splendor streamed through all the sky, 

O'er land and sea one soft, delicious blush, 
That touched the gray rocks lightly, tenderly, 
A transitory flush. 



4 o POEMS ON NATURE. 

Warm, odorous gusts came off the distant land 

With spice of pine-woods, breath of hay new-mown, 
O'er miles of waves and sea-scents cool and bland, 
Full in our faces blown. 

Slow faded the sweet light, and peacefully 
The quiet stars came out one after one ; 
The holy twilight deepened silently : 

The summer day was done. 

Such unalloyed delight its hours had given, 

Musing, this thought rose in my grateful mind, — 
That God, who watches all things, up in heaven, 
With patient eyes and kind, 

Saw and was pleased, perhaps, one child of His 

Dared to be happy like the little birds, 
Because He gave His children days like this, 
Rejoicing beyond words, 

Dared — lifting up to Him untroubled eyes 

In gratitude that worship is, and prayer — 
Sing and be glad with ever-new surprise 
He made His world so fair. 

Ceija Tiiaxter. 



POEMS ON NATURE. 



41 



THE BROOK. 
From the Spanish. 

Laugh of the mountain ! lyre of bird and tree ! 

Pomp of the meadow ! mirror of the morn \ 

The soul of April, unto whom are born 
The rose and jessamine, leaps wild in thee ! 

Although, where'er thy devious current strays, 
The lap of earth with gold and silver teems, 
To me thy clear proceeding brighter seems 

Than golden sands, that charm each shepherd's gaze. 
How without guile thy bosom, all-transparent 
As the pure crystal, lets the curious eye 

Thy secrets scan, thy smooth round pebbles count ! 
How, without malice, murmuring glides thy current! 
Oh, sweet simplicity of days gone by ! 

Thou shun'st the haunts of man to dwell in limpid 

fount ! 

Longfellow. 



MUSIC OF THE WIND. 

A tune that keeps no earthly time or measure, 
Rising and falling at the wind's wild pleasure; 
Now quick in haste, now slow in languid leisure,. 

But, always very musically sweet 
And always sad, no little childish feet 
To its soft cadence dance along the street ; 

4* 



42 POEMS ON NATURE. 

No little childish voice breaks into singing, 
By a glad impulse like a wild bird flinging 
An echo to the sound the wind is bringing. 

Rather the child, although scarce knowing why, 
Hearing this music, passes slowly by, 
And breathes its fear and wonder in a sigh. 

Living Age. 



ONE JUNE MORNING. 

I'm thinking now of a time, my friend, — 

How many summers ago? 
In the morning's dewy prime, my friend, 

The June's young glow. 
That morn when I and the girl that died, 
Happy-hearted, tender-eyed, 
Sat side by side, sat side by side, 

And whispered low. 

Oh, those young June days ! 

God never made aught so rare ; 
Glamor of silvern haze, 

Fragrance in earth and air, 
Each bird a fountain of praise, 

Each flower a pray'r. 
And those hearts of ours, those hearts of ours ! 
They were gladder than birds, they were sweeter 

than flowers ; 
God looked not down that summer day 
On aught so tender and pure as they. 



43 



POEMS ON NATURE. 

O'er her work my darling bent, 

Lowly, lowly ! 
Waited while the minutes went, 

Slowly, slowly. 
Ah ! she knew I loved her well, — 
Knew I had a tale to tell 

In her pinky ear; 
Why, ah why, are lovers shy 
When maidens wait with downcast eye 

And none is near ? 

Ah, yes ! there was not a thing but knew : 
The harebell tinkled its bell of blue, 

And looked away ; 
But the saucy thrush on the bough that swung, 
Boldly he stared and archly sung, 
And babbled the tale with wanton tongue 

To every bird on the spray. 

At length they came, a word or two, — 

Simple words 
Which none o'erheard but a bird or two, — 

Flowers and birds. 
Slowly my darling raised her head ; 
Never a word the sweet lips said, 
But the flower cheeks blossomed a riper red, 

And the lashes were bright and a-tremble with tears 
As two young souls in a long kiss met, — 
A kiss whose melody haunts me yet 

Through all the years. 

And then from his nest hard by 
' A lark upsprung, 
And quivered into the sky and sung and sung. 



44 



POEMS ON NATURE. 

The noisiest babbler held his breath, 

And the wind and trees stood still as death, 

To list to the rapture deep and strong 

Of that skylark's song. 

I heard the lark sing yesterday 

From his grassy nest hard by ; 
He quivered away in the morning gray, 

And lost himself in the sky. 
He sang once more that self-same air; 
But ah for the rapture, the vast despair, 
The passionate pain ! It had passed from there : 

His heart was sear and dry; 
He will never sing again — ah, no ! — 
As he sang in that summer of long ago. 

For the world grows old, grows old, my friend, 
And the Junes have turned so cold, my friend, 
And there lingers a smell of mould, my friend, 

And rotting leaves ; 
And he thinks of those days of old, my friend, 

And grieves, and grieves. 

Ah ! never again will he sing such a strain 

Of passionate strength and glow 
As the strain he sung when we both were young, — 

How many summers ago ? 
As the strain he sung in the blithe June-tide 
When I and my darling sat side by side, 
I and the dear little heart that died, — 

How many summers ago ? 
Ah, fifty summers ago, my friend, 

Fifty summers ago ! 

Frederick Langbridge. 



POEMS ON NATURE. 



45 



AUTUMN. 

With what a glory comes and goes the year ! 
The buds of spring, those beautiful harbingers 
Of sunny skies and cloudless times, enjoy 
Life's newness and earth's garniture spread out ; 
And when the silver habit of the clouds 
Comes down upon the autumn sun, and with 
A sombre gladness the old year takes up 
His bright inheritance of golden fruits, 
A pomp and pageant fill the splendid scene. 

There is a beautiful spirit breathing now 
Its mellow richness on the clustered trees, 
And from a beaker full of richest dyes 
Pouring new glory on the autumn woods 
And dipping in warm light the pillared clouds. 
Morn on the mountain, like a summer bird, 
Lifts up her purple wing, and in the vale 
The gentle wind, a sweet and passionate wooer, 
Kisses the blushing leaf and stirs up life 
Within the solemn woods of ash deep-crimsoned, 
And silver beech, and maple yellow-leaved, 
Where autumn, like a faint old man, sits down 
By the wayside a-weary. Through the trees 
The golden robin moves. The purple finch, 
That on wild-cherry and red cedar feeds, — 
A winter bird, — comes with its plaintive whistle 
And pecks by the witch-hazel, whilst aloud 
From cottage-roofs the warbling bluebird sings, 



46 POEMS ON NATURE. 

And merrily, with oft-repeated stroke, 
Sounds from the threshing-floor the busy flail. 

Oh, what a glory doth this world put on 
For him who, with a fervent heart, goes forth 
Under the bright and glorious sky, and looks 
On duties well performed and days well spent ! 
For him the wind — ay, the yellow leaves — 
Shall have a voice and give him eloquent teachings 
He shall so hear the solemn hymn that Death 
Has lifted up for all that he shall go 
To his long resting-place without a tear. 

Longfellow. 



FROSTY WEATHER. 

Now frozen mists the trees with crystal grace, 

Robing each branch and twig in finest lace ; 

The ruddy sun peeps through the hazy air, 

And snow-wreaths blush to be so white and fair. 

The weary birds twice their keen hunger feel, 

For biting cold exacts a second meal : 

They in the sheltered banks lie mute and still, 

And stiff on end raise every feathered quill. 

Then, as the sun in midday gains more power, 

The lace becomes a glittering silver shower, 

Emitting sounds sharp, crisp, and musical. 

The boughs are bending with their fleece of snow, 

The icicles, like giant jewels, glow, 

While the white surface of untrodden fields 

Doubles the light the shortened daytime yields. 



POEMS ON NATURE. 47 

Acknowledge then, O man ! the loving Power 
That fills with beauty winter's trying hour: 
Pure be thy thoughts as yon broad plains of snow ; 
Return God's love as they the sun's bright glow. 

Chambers 's Journal. 



MORNING. 



The. stars burnt out in the pale blue air, 

And the thin white moon lay withering there : 

To tower and cavern and rift and tree 

The owl and the bat fled drowsily. 

Day had kindled the dewy woods, 

And the rock above, and the stream below, 

And' the vapors in their multitudes, 

And the Apennines' shroud of summer snow, 

And, clothed with light of airy gold, 

The mists in their Eastern caves uprolled. 

Day had wakened all things that be, — 
The lark and the thrush and the swallow free, 
And the milkmaid's song and the mower's scythe, 
And the matin bell and the mountain bee. 
Fireflies were quenched on the dewy corn, 
Glow-worms went out on the river's brim 
Like lamps which a student forgets to trim ; 
The beetle forgot to wind his horn, 
And the crickets were still in the meadow and hill. 

Shelley. 



4 8 POEMS ON NATURE. 



MONT BLANC. 

Love has her home in valleys, weaves her spells 
Of peace among the hamlets of the plain ; 
Cities are rife with human loss and gain ; 

Breathing the air of forests Freedom dwells, 

Shifting like life the ocean foams and swells : 
Thou art above the reach of joy and pain, 
Poets have faltered forth thy praise in vain, 

For nothing here of what is mortal tells. 
The silence of the everlasting snows 

Is thine, the starlight on thy great white throne ; 
Avalanche and glacier break not thy repose ; 

Morning and evening find thee all alone, 
Thou highest tribute to the Highest given, 
Where earth aspires to be the peer of heaven. 

Spectator . 



MARCH. 



Oh, March is a tricky fellow, 

A tricky, troublesome sprite ; 
He will be as mild as a lamb by day 

And fierce as a lion at night. 
He rushes about with a clatter and bang 

And makes the echoes ring, 
And lays his mouth to the doors of the flowers 

And roars, " Come out ! I am Spring !" 



POEMS ON NATURE. 



49 



But the flowers, they know better ; 

They smile and wink in the dark, 
And nudge each other and whisper low : 

" He is trying to cheat us. Hark ! 
How he shakes the ground with his heavy tread 

And croaks as he tries to sing ! 
We know better — don't we, dears? — 

The voice of the real Spring. 

"We know April's lulling music, 

Wild as the wood-dove's catches, 
And the sound of her dainty finger-tips 

Fumbling about our latches. 
And May, the dear, delicious May, — 

When we hear her laughter, 
Quickly we jump and out we troop 

In gay procession after. 

"But this obstreperous fellow, 

This noisy, mischievous thing, 
Need not think he is going to take us in 

By leaving his card as ' Spring.' 
Lie down again, violets darlings, 

And, crocuses, you keep quiet : 
Spring may come with a serenade, 

But never with a riot." 

Susan Coolidge. 



5° 



POEMS ON NATURE. 



THE BIRD THAT SUNG IN MAY. 

A bird last spring came to my window-shutter 

One lovely morning at the break of day, 
And from his little throat did sweetly utter 
A most melodious lay. 

He had no language for his joyous passion, 
No solemn measure, nor artistic rhyme ; 
Yet no devoted minstrel e'er did fashion 
Such perfect tune and time. 

It seemed of thousand joys a thousand stories, 
All gushing forth in one tumultuous tide, — 
A hallelujah for the morning-glories 

That bloomed on every side. 

And with each canticle's voluptuous ending 

He sipped a dew-drop from each dripping pane, 
Then, heavenward his little bill extending, 
Broke forth in song again. 

I 'thought to emulate his wild emotion 

And learn thanksgiving from his tuneful tongue, 
But human heart ne'er uttered such devotion, 
Nor human lips such song. 

At length he flew and left me in my sorrow 

Lest I should hear his tender notes no more ; 
And, though I early waked for him each morrow, 
He came not nigh my door. 



POEMS ON NATURE. 



5 1 



But once again, one silent summer even, 

I met him hopping in the new-mown hay ; 
But he was mute and looked not up to heaven, 
The bird that sung in May. 

Though now I hear from dawn to twilight hour 

The hoarse woodpecker and the noisy jay, 
In vain I seek through leafless grove and bower 
The bird that sung in May. 

And such, methinks, are childhood's dawning pleasures: 

They charm a moment and then fly away ; 
Through life we sigh and seek those missing treasures, 
The birds that sung in May. 

This little lesson, then, my boy, remember, — 

To seize each bright-winged blessing in its day, 
And never hope to catch in cold December 
The bird that sung in May. 

Unknown. 



POEMS ON FLOWERS. 



" Everywhere about us are they glowing, 

Some like stars to tell us spring is born ; 

Others, their blue eyes with tears o'erflowing, 

Stand like Ruth amid the golden corn." 

Longfellow. 



SPRING WILD FLOWERS. 

A garland of wild roses, 
With eglantine and daisies and the like, 

Some snowdrops, such as Winter oft exposes 

Between the thaws wherewith she closes, — 
Meltings like the regrets that strike 
Amid the chill of human hearts, belike, 

When passion looses. 

A withered nosegay, too: 
'Tvvas plucked one spring day in the fresh greenwood ; 

All laughingly the sun stole through 

And quenched his thirst with cups of dew; 
Cowslip, heath, and fox-glove wooed 
Hands that plucked in merriest mood, 

Prizing while new. 

A few sweet violets ; 
The scent methinks still clings to the blue leaf; 

52 



POEMS ON FLOWERS. 

Trifles, but yet their breath begets 

Sweet memories no heart forgets ; 
Even with their life so brief, 
Are they not worth at least such grief, 

Knowing no regrets ? 

Some dandelions and gorse, 
With a marigold or two full blown, 

Gathered at the time. The things are coarse, 

I own, yet this may have its force : 
They took my fancy, — weeds not grown 
In vain, I think, or Nature had not thrown 

So many o'er her course. 

All bound up together 
With one little sprig of forget-me-not. 

Alas ! bright flowers so speedily wither, 

And grief's so inconstant, one knows not whether 
It is not selfishness, after all, 
Makes us so keenly regret their fall 

Ere the wintry weather. 

Professor Daniel Wilson, LL.D. 



53 



THE EASTER DECORATIONS. 

Oh, take away your dried and painted garlands ! 

The snow-cloth's fallen from each quickened brow 
The stone's rolled off the sepulchre of winter, 

And risen leaves and flowers are wanted now. 

5* 



54 POEMS ON FLOWERS. 

Send out the little ones, that they may gather 

With their pure hands the firstlings of the birth, — 

Green-golden tufts and delicate half-blown blossoms 
Sweet with the fragrance of the Easter earth ; 

Great primrose bunches with soft damp moss 

Clinging to their brown fibres, nursed in hazel-roots ; 

And violets from the shady banks and copses, 

And wood-anemones, and white hawthorn-shoots ; 

And tender curling fronds of fern, and grasses 

And crumpled leaves from brink of babbling rills, 

With cottage-garden treasures, — pale narcissi, 
And lilac plumes, and yellow daffodils. 

Open the doors and let the Easter sunshine 
Flow warmly in and out in amber waves ; 

And let the perfume floating round our altar 
Meet the new perfume from the outer graves. 

And let the Easter " Alleluia" mingle 

With the sweet silver rain-notes of the lark; 

Let us all sing together ! Lent is over, 
Captivity and winter, death and dark. 

Ada Cambridge. 



POEMS ON FLOWERS. 55 



CONSIDER THE LILIES, HOW THEY 

GROW. 

The lilies fair are found 
On shadowed ground, 
The shady haunts of sunny clime, 
And breathe the balm of summer-time : 
Refreshed by morning dew and veiled from noontide 

glow, 
They taste the softest light and air; and this is how 
they grow. 

Updrawn from verdant sod 
By look from God, 
These holy, happy flowers pervade 
The sloping lawn, the forest glade; 
And, charmed by zephyr's wing and lulled by stream- 
let's flow, 
They calmly muse, they brightly dream ; and this is 
how they grow. 

They bloom in sheltered nook 
By purling brook; 
And earth how fondly, firmly loves 
These treasures of her streams and groves ! 
The dark mould cherishes their petals white like 

snow 
With Heaven-apportioned nutriment; and this is how 
they grow. 



56 POEMS ON FLOWERS. 

I have considered them, — 
The flexile stem, 
The blossoms pending airily 
Beneath their leafy canopy, 
Their witching fragrance, spotless hue, — and thus I feel 

and know 
That God imparts their loveliness ; and this is how they 

grow. 

Unknown. 



ROADSIDE GRASSES. 

But not alone the fairest flowers : 
The merest grass 
Along the roadside where we pass, 

Lichen and moss and sturdy weed, 
Tell of His love who sends the dew, 
The rain and sunshine too, 

To nourish one small seed. 

Christina G. Rossetti. 



TO VIOLETS. 

Welcome, maids of honor ! 

You do bring 

In the Spring 
And wait upon her. 



POEMS ON FLOWERS, 57 

She has virgins many 

Fresh and fair ; 

Yet you are 
More sweet than any. 

Y' are the maiden posies, 

And so graced 

To be placed 
'Fore damask roses. 

Yet, though thus respected, 

By and by 

Ye do lie, 
Poor girls! neglected. 

Robert Herrick. 



TRAILING ARBUTUS. 

Darlings of the forest, 

Blossoming alone, 
When earth's grief is sorest 
For her jewels gone, 
Ere the last snow-drift melts your tender buds have 
blown. 

Tinged with color faintly, 

Like the morning sky, 
Or, more pale and saintly, 

Wrapped in leaves ye lie, 
Even as children sleep in faith's simplicity. 



58 POEMS ON FLOWERS. 

There the wild-wood robin 

Hymns your solitude, 
And the rain comes sobbing 
Through the budding wood, 
While the low south wind sighs, but dare not be more 
rude. 

Were your pure lips fashioned 

Out of air and dew, — 
Starlight unimpassioned, 
Dawn's most tender hue, — 
And scented by the woods that gathered sweets for 
you? 

Fairest and most lonely, 
From the world apart, 
Made for beauty only, 

Veiled from Nature's heart 
With such unconscious grace as makes the dream of 
art, — 

Were not mortal sorrow 

An immortal shade, 
Then would I to-morrow 
Such a flower be made, 
And live in the dear woods where my lost childhood 
played. 

Rose Terry. 



POEMS ON FLOWERS. 59 



BLOSSOM -TIME. 

There's a wedding in the orchard, dear; 

I know it by the flowers : 
They're wreathed on every bough and branch 

Or falling down in showers. 

The air is in a mist, I think, 

And scarce knows which to be, — 

Whether all fragrance, clinging close, 
Or bird-song wild and free. 

And countless wedding-jewels shine, 

And golden gifts of grace : 
I never saw such wealth of sun 

In any shady place. 

It seemed I heard the fluttering robes 

Of maidens clad in white^, 
The clasping of a thousand hands 

In tenderest delight ; 

While whispers ran among the boughs 

Of promises and praise, 
And playful loving messages 

Sped through the leaf-lit ways. 

And just beyond the wreathed aisles 

That end against the blue, 
The raiment of the wedding-choir 

And priest came shining through. 



60 POEMS ON FLOWERS. 

And though I saw no wedding-guest, 
Nor groom, nor gentle bride, 

I knew that holy things were asked, 
And holy love replied. 

And something through the sunlight said, 
" Let all who love be blest : 

The earth is wedded to the spring, 
And God, He knoweth best." 



Unknown. 



AN OPEN SECRET. 

Anemone ! Anemone ! 

Who cleft your pretty leaves in three 

And grouped them round your little feet 

In three again ? Who left the sweet, 

Faint breath of Spring upon your lips, 

Her flush upon your petal-tips? 

Who brings you on this April day 

From far-off sun-land, beams of May, 

And warms the shivering baby shoots 

That hide among your tender roots? 

And, when the North Wind came last week, 

Who deftly pierced his puffy cheek 

And turned the flying frost he blew 

Across the hills to balmy dew? 

"And who — " She shook her dainty head 

(Or did the wind pass by?) and said, 

"The 'frail Anemone' has friends." 

"And who — " But there the story ends. 

Mary A. Lathbury. 



POEMS ON FLOWERS. 6 1 



THE VOICE OF THE GRASS. 

Here I come, creeping, creeping everywhere : 

By the dusty roadside, 

On the sunny hillside, 

Close by the noisy brook, 

In every shady nook, 
I come creeping, creeping everywhere. 

Here I come, creeping, smiling everywhere : 
All round the open door, 
Where sit the aged poor, 
Here where the children play 
In the bright and merry May, 

I come creeping, creeping everywhere. 

Here I come, creeping, creeping everywhere : 

In the noisy city street 

My pleasant face you'll meet, 

Cheering the sick atlieart 

Toiling his busy part, 
Silently creeping, creeping everywhere. 

Here I come, creeping, creeping everywhere ; 
You cannot see me coming, 
Nor hear my low sweet humming ; 
For in the starry night, 
And the glad morning light, 

I come quietly creeping everywhere. 

6 



62 POEMS ON FLOWERS. 

Here I come, creeping, creeping everywhere, 
More welcome than the flowers 
In summer's pleasant hours; 
The gentle cow is glad, 
And the merry bird not sad, 

To see me creeping, creeping everywhere. 

Here I come, creeping, creeping everywhere ; 
When you're numbered with the dead 
In your still and narrow bed, 
In the happy spring I'll come 
And deck your silent home, 

Creeping, silently creeping everywhere. 

Here I come, creeping, creeping everywhere ; 

My humble song of praise 

Most joyfully I raise 

To Him at whose command 

I beautify the land, 
Creeping, silently creeping everywhere. 

Sarah Roberts. 



A SONG OF CLOVER. 

I wonder what the clover thinks ? 
Intimate friend of Bob-o'-link's, 
Lover of daisies slim and white, 
Waltzer with buttercups at night, 
Keeper of inn for travelling bees, 
Serving to them wine-dregs and lees 



POEMS ON FLOWERS. 63 

Left by the royal humming-birds, 
Who sip, and pay with fine-spun words ; 
Fellow with all the lowliest, 
Peer of the gayest and the best ; 
Comrade of winds, beloved of sun, 
Kissed by the dewdrops one by one ; 
Prophet of good-luck mystery 
By sign of four which few may see; 
Symbol of nature's magic zone, 
One out of three, and three in one ; 
Emblem of comfort in the speech 
Which poor men's babies early reach ; 
Sweet by the roadsides, sweet by rills, 
Sweet in the meadows, sweet on hills, 
Sweet in its white, sweet in its red, 
Oh, half its sweet cannot be said ; 
Sweet in its every living breath, 
Sweetest, perhaps, at last, in death, — 
Oh, who knows what the clover thinks? 
No one, — unless the bob-o' -links ! 

Saxe Holm, in Scribner's Monthly. 



THREE ROSES. 

Just when the red June roses blow 
She gave me one, — a year ago ; 
A rose whose crimson breath revealed 
The secret that its heart concealed, 
And whose half-shy, half-tender grace 
Blushed back upon the giver's face. 



64 POEMS ON FLOWERS. 

A year ago, a year ago, 
To hope was not to know. 

Just when the red June roses blow 
I plucked her one, — a month ago ; 
Its half-blown crimson to eclipse 
I laid it on her trembling lips; 
The balmy fragrance of the South 
Drew sweetness from her sweeter mouth. 
Swiftly do golden hours creep : 
To hold is not to keep. 

The red June roses now are past : 
This very day I broke the last, 
And now its perfumed breath is hid, 
With her, beneath a coffin-lid ; 
There will its petals fall apart 
And wither on her icy heart. 
At three red roses' cost 
My world was gained and lost. 

Adelaide A Procter. 



VIOLETS. 



Violets in the sunshine, 

Violets wet with dew, 
In the autumn twilight 

Oft I think of you ; 
You, the Spring's frail children, 

Born 'mid April's grief, — 



POEMS ON FLOWERS. 

I think of you when autumn 
Yellows every leaf. 



65 



Violets in the hedgerows, 

Lingering till May 
Where the wind-swayed cowslips 

Love to kiss and play, 
Bringing hopes of summer 

Not unmixed with grief, — 
I think of you when autumn 

Yellows every leaf. 

Chainlet ?s Joutnal. 



GOLDEN-ROD. 

" How in the world did I happen to bloom 

All by myself, alone 
By the side of a dusty country road, 

With only a rough old stone 

"For company?" And the golden-rod 
As she dropped her yellow head, 

Gave a mournful sigh. " Who cares for me, 
Or knows I'm alive?" she said. 

"A snow-white daisy I'd like to be, 
Half hid in the cool green sod, 

Or a pink spirea or sweet wild rose, — 
But I'm only a gold en- rod ! 
6* 



66 POEMS ON FLOWERS. 

" Nobody knows that I'm here, nor cares 

Whether I live or die : 
In a world of beautiful flowers who wants 

Such a common thing as I?" 

But all of a sudden she ceased her plaint, 

For a child's voice cried in glee, 
" Here's a dear little lovely golden-rod ! 

Did you bloom on purpose for me ? 

" Down by the brook the tall spirea 

And the purple asters nod, 
And beckon to me ; but more than all 

Do I love you, golden-rod !" 

She raised the flower to her rosy lips, 

And merrily kissed its face. 
"Ah ! now I see," said the golden-rod, 
" How this is the very place 

" That was meant for me; and I'm glad I bloomed 

Just here by the road alone, 
With nobody here for company 

But a dear old mossy stone !" 

Philadelphia Press. 



POEMS ON FLOWERS. 67 



TO A COUNTRY DAFFODIL. 

With hanging head and fluted stalk, 
A golden herald of the spring, 
Telling how thrushes build and sing 

Amongst the laurels in the walk 

Where we have also loved and sung, — 

Come, daffodil, and whisper true 
(Here amongst city fog and smoke), 
What tidings of our trysting-oak, 

Where squirrels sport and pigeons coo 
As though the world were ever young ? 

Or, if it please you to be seen 

And hold your head above them all, 
I'll take you to a royal ball, 

Where you may meet a future queen, — 
High honor for a daffodil ! 

Violet Fane. 



A CITY WEED. 

I passed a graveyard in a London street, 

Where, 'stead of songs of birds, the hoarse sad cries 

Of wretched men echoed from morn till night. 
Locked, were its gates, and rows of iron bars 

Fenced in God's acre from tired wanderers' feet. 
All broken lay the slabs which love had raised ; 



68 POEMS ON FLOWERS. 

But on a mound where fell a patch of light 

A bindweed grew, and on its flowers, with eyes 

O'erflowing with a wintry rain of tears, 
A pale-faced, miserable woman gazed, 
Heart-sick with longings for the nevermore, 

And faint with memories of bygone years, — 
A breezy common with a heaven of stars, 
And lovers parting at a cottage-door. 

Chambers 's Journal. 



LA FLOR DEL SALVADOR. 

The daffodil sang: " Darling of the sun 
Am I, am I, that wear 
His color everywhere." 

The violet pleaded soft, in undertone : 

"Am I less perfect made, 

Or hidden in the shade 
So close and deep that heaven may not see 
Its own fair hue in me ?' ' 

The rose stood up full-blown, 

Right royal as a queen upon her throne. 
" Nay, but I reign alone," 

She said, "with all hearts for my very own." 

One whispered, with faint flush, not far away: 
" I am the eye of day, 



POEMS ON FLOWERS. 69 

And all men love me;" and, with drowsy sighs, 

A lotus, from the still pond where she lay, 
Breathed, "lam precious balm for weary eyes." 

Only the field-lily, slim and tall, 
Spake not, for all, — 

Spake not and did not stir, 
Lapsed in some far and tender memory. 

Softly I questioned her : 
"And what of thee?" 

And winds were lulled about the bended head, 
And the warm sunlight swathed her as in flame, 
While the awed answer came : 

"Hath He not said?" 

Overland Monthly. 



BUTTERCUPS AND DAISIES. 

Welcome, yellow buttercups ! 

Welcome, daisies white ! 
Ye are in my spirit 

Visioned, a delight, 
Coming in the spring-time 

Of sunny hours to tell, 
Speaking to our hearts of Him 



Who doeth all things well. 



Unknown. 



70 POEMS ON FLOWERS. 



THE DAISY. 

I do love thee, pretty daisy, 

For the lessons thou dost bring ; 
With thy cheerful eye all golden 

And its circling silver rim, 
Thou dost teach me lessons richer 

Than many a great and valued thing. 

Do I ever find thee closing, 

Hiding that bright eye of thine? 

Never : day and night art keeping 
Watch for stars and sun that shine ; 

Thus thy teachings are more precious 

Than many a flower more sought than thine. 

Thou dost show me, little daisy, 

How I can more patient be, 
For by looking steady farther 

Than the turmoil of the sea 
I may gain by trust and waiting 

That dear land prepared for me. 

And thou also sayest softly, 

" Look above to God and light ; 
He will listen ; He does love thee ; 

Keep thy watch : He'll guide thee right." 
I must love thee, lowly daisy, 

For pointing to that glorious height. 



POEMS ON FLOWERS. 71 

Many know not why I praise thee, 
But 'tis thus I'd tell them why, — 

That thou always brightly lookest 
Upward, upward to the sky, 

Till the autumn-spirit whispereth, 
"Now it is thy time to die." 

Then thou quickly, sweetly givest 

Up thy brightness at that call, 
Teaching me that Christian yielding 

Takes from life or death its thrall. 
I must love thee, pretty daisy, 

And strive to heed thy lessons all. 

J. R. R. 



THE FAINT FLOWER. 

Up where the meadow-grass 
Leans toward the river 

Stood little Bluebell, 
All in a shiver : 

"River! O River! 

Where are you going? 
Stay just a moment 

In your swift flowing !" 

"O little Bluebell! 

How can I wait ? 
The miller will chide me : 

The boats will be late." 



72 POEMS ON FLOWERS. 

''Rain-clouds! Rain-clouds ! 

Where are you flying? 
I am so thirsty, 

Fainting and dying !" 

"O little Bluebell! 

Afar in the air 
The Storm-king is calling, 

And we must be there." 

" Robin, dear Robin ! 

I am so ill, 
And you're at the river-bank 

Drinking your fill." 

"O little Bluebell! 

Do, then, look up ; 
Some kind cloud will give you 

A drop in your cup." 

Here little Bluebell 
Ceased her complaint, 

Drooping still lower, 
Hopeless and faint. 

But down fell the Twilight, 
And up came the Dew, 

Whisp'ring, " Dear Bluebell, 
We're sorry for you. 

M We are not strong, 

Like the rain or the river, 

But never a flower faints 
For help we can give her." 



POEMS ON FLOWERS. 73 

By thousands and thousands, 

The summer night through, 
Silently gathered 

The hosts of the dew. 

At dawn little Bluebell 

Held gratefully up 
Her silent thank-offering, 

The dew in her cup. 

Mary A. Lathbury, in St. Nicholas. 



SENSITIVE-PLANT. 

A sensitive-plant in a garden grew, 
And the young winds fed it with silver dew, 
And it opened its fan-like leaves to the light 
And closed them beneath the kisses of night. 

And the spring arose on the garden fair, 
And the spirit of Love fell everywhere ; 
And each flower and herb on earth's dark breast 
Rose from the dreams of its wintry rest. 

But none ever trembled and panted with bliss 
In the garden, the field, or the wilderness, 
Like a doe in the noontide with love's sweet want, 
As the companionless sensitive-plant. 

The snowdrop, and then the violet, 
Arose from the ground with warm rain wet, 
And their breath was mixed with fresh odor sent 
From the turf, like the voice and the instrument. 

7 



74 



POEMS ON FLOWERS. 



Then the pied wind-flowers and tulip tall, 
And narcissi, the fairest among them all, 
Who gaze on their eyes in the stream's recess 
Till they die of their own dear loveliness ; 

And the naiad-like lily of the vale, 
Whom youth makes so fair and passion so pale 
That the light of its tremulous bells is seen 
Through their pavilions of tender green ; 

And the hyacinth, purple and white and blue, 
Which flung from its bells a sweet peal anew 
Of music so delicate, soft, and intense 
It was felt like an odor within the sense ; 

And the rose like a nymph to the bath-addrest, 
Which unveiled the depth of her glowing breast, 
Till, fold after fold, to the fainting air 
The soul of her beauty and love lay bare ; 

And the wand-like lily, which lifted up, 

As a Mcenad, its moonlight-colored cup, 

Till the fiery star which is its eye 

Gazed through the clear dew on the tender sky ; 

And the jessamine faint, and the sweet tuberose, 
The sweetest flower for scent that blows ; 
And all rare blossoms, from every clime, — 
Grew in that garden in perfect prime. 

Shelley. 



POEMS ON FLOWERS. 75 



THE RIVER-LILY. 

I opened the eyes of my soul, 

And, behold, 
A white river-lily ! a lily awake, and aware — 

For she set her face upward — aware how, in scarlet 
and gold, 
A long wrinkled cloud, left behind of the wandering 
air, 
Lay over with fold upon fold, 
With fold upon fold. 

And the blushing sweet shame of the cloud made her 
also ashamed, 
The white river-lily that suddenly knew she was fair ; 
And over the far-away mountains that no man hath 
named, 
And that no foot hath trod, 
Flung down out of heavenly places, there fell, as it 
were, 
A rose-bloom, a token of love, that should make them 

endure, 
Withdrawn in snow-silence forever, who keep them- 
selves pure 
And look up to God. 

Jean Ingelow. 



1 6 POEMS ON FLOWERS. 



LITTLE DANDELION. 

Gay little dandelion 

Lights up the meads, 
Swings on its slender foot, 

Telleth her beads. 
List to the robin's note, 

Poured from above : 
Wise little dandelion 

Cares not for love. 

Cold lie the daisy-banks, 

Clad but in green, 
Where in the Mays agone 

Bright hues were seen. 
Wild pinks are slumbering, 

Violets delay : 
True little dandelion 

Greeteth the May. 

Brave little dandelion ! 

Fast falls the snow, 
Bending the daffodil's 

Haughty head low. 
Under that fleecy tent, 

Careless of cold, 
Blithe little dandelion 

Counteth her gold. 



POEMS ON FLOWERS. 

Meek little dandelion 

Groweth more fair, 
Till dries the amber dew 

Out from her hair. 
High rides the thirsty sun, 

Fearless and high : 
Faint little dandelion 

Closeth her eye. 

Pale little dandelion, 

In her white shroud, 
Heareth the angel Breeze 

Call from the cloud. 
Tiny plumes fluttering 

Make no delay : 
Little winged dandelion 

Soareth away. 



77 



Unknown. 



THE CHRYSANTHEMUM. 

Welcome in our leafless bower, 

Where November's breath has come,- 
Welcome, golden -an thered flower, 

Ever-fair chrysanthemum ! 
Like an old friend's pleasant face, 
Though the earth is void of grace, 
And the very birds are dumb, 
Cheerful, gay chrysanthemum ! 

Thus may I have round me when 
Age's frost my heart shall numb 

7* 



78 POEMS OX FLOWERS. 

Friends as warm and constant then 

As thou art, chrysanthemum ! 
May I find, though youth be past, 
Hearts that love me to the last, 
Eyes that smile, though winter come, 
Bright as thou, chrysanthemum ! 

Chambers' 's yournal. 



WALL-FLOWERS. 

Sweetest by night, like gracious words 

That scent the sacred page, 
But freeliest pour their perfumed store 

In sickness, grief, and age. 

Seen most by ruins, like the Love 

That gave itself for all ; 
Yet closest clings to guiltiest things, 



As Magdalene or Saul. 



Bishop Doane. 



THE YELLOW -BIRD'S NEST. 

He skipped about in the aspen-tree, 
And talked to himself and blinked at me ; 
And all the trembling foliage through 
He scanned me with a bird's-eye view. 
His under-dress was satin of gold, 
And over his back in graceful fold 



POEMS ON FLOWERS. 



79 



He flapped the skirts of his fine black coat, 
And darted aloft, repeating his note : 

"I cheat-ed-ye ! I cheat-ed-ye! I cheat-ed-ye !" 

I watched his flight as towards the dell 
His graceful motions rose and fell ; 
A flutter or two, an upward glide, 
Then, folding his pinions close by his side, 
He fell in a wave of the calm sweet air 
With never a flutter and never a care ; 
Then, mounting again on vigorous wing, 
His heart gave vent in a graceful swing : 

" I cheat-ed-ye ! I cheat-ed-ye ! I cheat-ed-ye !' 

The aspen-leaves rocked lazily 
As he scanned me again with his keen black eye. 
" You can't cheat me, for I see the nest — 
Warmed by your sweetheart's downy breast — 
'Way up in the crotch of the aspen-tree: 
I know the wealth of your birdlings three." 
I turned the joke on the gaudy cheat, 
And took up his song and began to repeat : 

" I cheat-ed-ye ! I cheat-ed-ye ! I cheat-ed-ye !'' 
James H. Hardy, in Nursery. 



THE CHILDREN'S CORNER. 



A NURSERY SONG. 

As I walked over the hills one day 

I listened and heard a mother-sheep say, 

" In all the green world there is nothing so sweet 

As my little lammie with its nimble feet. 

With his eye so bright 

And his wool so white, 
Oh, he is my darling, my heart's delight. 

The robin— he 

That sings in the tree — 
Dearly may doat on his darlings four, 
But I love my one little lambkin more." 
And the mother-sheep and her little one 
Side by side lay down in the sun, 
And they went to sleep on the hillside warm, 
While my little lammie lies here on my arm. 

I went to the kitchen, and what did I see 
But the old gray cat with her kittens three ? 
I heard her whispering soft : said she, 
" My kittens, with tails so cunningly curled, 
Are the prettiest things that can be in the world. 
80 



THE CHILDREN'S CORNER. 8 1 

The bird on the tree, 

And the old ewe, she 
May love their babes exceedingly; 

But I love my kittens there 

Under the rocking-chair. 
I love my kittens with all my might ; 
I love them at morning and noon and night ; 
Which is the prettiest I cannot tell, — 

Which of the three, 

For the life of me, — 
I love them all so well. 
Now I'll take up my kitties, the kitties I love, 
And we'll lie down together beneath the warm stove." 
Let the kitties sleep under the stove so warm 
While my little darling lies here on my arm. 

I went to the yard, and I saw the old hen 

Go clucking about with her chickens ten. 

She clucked and she scratched and she bristled away, 

And what do you think I heard her say? 

I heard her say, " The sun never did shine 

On anything like these chickens of mine. 

You may hunt the full moon, and the stars if you 

please, 
But you never will find ten such chickens as these. 
The cat loves her kittens, the ewe loves her lamb, 
But they do not know what a proud mother I am ; 
For lambs, nor for kittens, I won't part with these, 
Though the sheep and the cats should go down on their 

knees. 

No, no ! not though 
The kittens should crow, 
Or the lammie on two yellow legs could go. 



82 THE CHILDREN'S CORNER. 

My dear downy darlings ! my sweet little things ! 
Come nestle now cosily under my wings." 
So the hen said, 
And the chickens all sped 
As fast as they could to their nice feather-bed. 
And there let them sleep in their feathers so warm, 
While my little chick nestles here on my arm. 

Living Age. 



SLEEP, BABY, SLEEP! 

Sleep, baby, sleep ! 

Thy father watches his sheep ; 
Thy mother is shaking the dream-land tree, 
And down comes a little dream on thee. 

Sleep, baby, sleep ! 

Sleep, baby, sleep ! 

The large stars are the sheep ; 
The little stars are the lambs, I guess, 
And the gentle moon is the shepherdess. 

Sleep, baby, sleep ! 

Sleep, baby, sleep ! 

Our Saviour loves His sheep ; 
He is the Lamb of God on high 
Who for our sakes came down to die. 

Sleep, baby, sleep ! 

From the German. 



THE CHILDREN'S CORNER. g$ 



A LITTLE GOOSE. 

A chill November day was done, 

The working world home faring ; 
The wind came roaring through the streets 

And set the gas-lights flaring ; 
And hopelessly and aimlessly 

The seared old leaves were flying, — 
When, mingled with the soughing wind, 

I heard a small voice crying. 

And shivering on the corner stood 

A child of four or over, 
No cloak nor hat her small soft arms 

And wind-blown curls to cover ; 
Her dimpled face was stained with tears ; 

Her round blue eyes ran over ; 
She cherished in her wee cold hand 

A bunch of faded clover. 

And, one hand round her treasure, while 

She slipped in mine the other, 
Half scared, half confidential, said, 

"Oh, please, I want my mother." 
" Tell me your street and number, pet ; 

Don't cry, I'll take you to it." 
Sobbing, she answered, "I forget; 

The organ made me do it." 



84 THE CHILDREN'S CORNER. 

"He came and played at Miller's steps; 

The monkey took the money, 
And so I followed down the street : 

That monkey was so funny ! 
I've walked about a hundred hours 

From one street to another ; 
The monkey's gone, I've spoiled my flowers 

Oh, please, I want my mother." 

"But what's your mother's name, and what 

The street? Now think a minute." 
" My mother's name is mamma dear; 

The street, — I can't begin it." 
" But what is strange about the house, 

Or new, — not like the others?" 
" I guess you mean my trundle-bed, 

Mine and my little brother's? 

" Oh, dear ! I ought to be at home 

To help him say his prayers ; 
He's such a baby he forgets, 

And we are both such players. 
And there's a bar between to keep 

From pitching on each other, 
For Harry rolls when he's asleep ; 

Oh, dear! I want my mother." 

The sky grew stormy ; people passed, 
All muffled, homeward faring ; 

"You'll have to spend the night with me," 
I said, at last despairing. 

I tied a kerchief round her neck : 
"What ribbon's this, my blossom?" 



THE CHILDREN'S CORNER. 85 

"Why, don't you know?" she smiling asked, 
And drew it from her bosom, — 

A card with number, street, and name ; 

My eyes astonished met it ; 
" For," said the little one, " you see, 

I might sometimes forget it; 
And so I wear a little thing 

That tells you all about it ; 
For mother says she's very sure 

I would get lost without it." 

Eliza S. Turner. 



FINDING THE MITTENS. 

" Oh, have you seen three pair 

Of mittens anywhere? 

One pair was white with blue tips, 

And one was red as rose lips, 

And one was striped like tulips. 

Has anybody seen three pair 

Of pretty mittens anywhere?" 

Where the mountain's shadow 

Falls across the meadow 

Ran the little kittens, 

Looking for their mittens. 

" Has no one seen three pretty pair 

Of little mittens anywhere?" 

Where the rushes shiver, 

Down beside the river, 



86 THE CHILDREN'S CORNER. 

Searched those anxious kittens 
For their little mittens. 
" Minnow darling, won't you look 
For them down there in the brook?' 
Through the dark old forest, 

Close up to the spring, 
Crept they very softly, — 

Didn't find a thing. 
Back into the meadow, 

Fast as they could fly, 
And underneath the elm-tree 

They sat down to cry. 
Then a little hang-bird, 

'Way up in the tree, 
Sang ; " I've got the prettiest nest 

That ever you did see. 
Horsehair, grass, and feathers 

Are all very well, 
But what my nest is made of 

I'll never, never tell." 
Then each little kitten 

Wiped one little eye, 
And straight ran up the elm-tree 

To see what he could spy. 
And there — ah ! what a happy, 

Joyous set of kittens ! — 
There, as true as preaching, 

Hung two snow-white mittens. 
Then the little minnow, 

Swimming up the brook, 
Loudly called : " Oh, kittens, 

Come down here and look !" 



THE CHILDREN'S CORNER. 87 

And the eager kittens, 

Running down to see, 
Found two little mittens, 

Red as they could be, 
Snugly tucked as lining 

For a dwelling dank, 
Where a musquash had his hole 

Underneath the bank. 
But, O Goody Two-Shoes ! where 
Was the little striped pair? 
The kittens they ran to and fro, 
The kittens they looked high and low; 
And just at sunset, when one star 
Peeped out behind a crimson bar 
Of cloud, they found the pretty pair 
Hid underneath the sunny hair 
Of a baby fast asleep 
In the meadow-grass so deep. 

The Churchman. 



LITTLE GOLDENHAIR. 

Goldenhair climbed upon grandpapa's knee; 
Dear little Goldenhair ! tired was she, 
All the day busy as busy could be, — 

Up in the morning as soon as 'twas light, 
Out with the birds and butterflies bright, 
Skipping about till the coming of night. 



S8 THE CHILDREN'S CORNER. 

Grandpapa toyed with the curls on her head. 
" What has my darling been doing," he said, 
" Since she rose with the sun from her bed?" 

" Pitty much," answered the sweet little one ; 
" I cannot tell, so much things I have done : 
Played with my dolly and feeded my bun. 

"And then I jumped with my little jump-rope; 
And I made out of some water and soap 
Bootiful worlds, mamma's castles of Hope. 

"I afterwards readed in my picture-book; 

And Bella and I we went to look 

For the smooth little stones by the side of the brook. 

" And then I corned home and eated my tea, 
And I climbed upon grandpapa's knee; 
And I jes' as tired as tired can be." 

Lower and lower the little head pressed 
Until it had dropped upon grandpapa's breast ; 
Dear little Goldenhair, sweet be thy rest ! 

God grant that when night overshadows our way, 
And we shall be called to account for our day, 
He shall find us as guileless as Goldenhair's lay. 

And oh, when aweary, may we be so blest, 
And sink like the innocent child to our rest, 
And feel ourselves clasped to the infinite Breast. 

Unknown. 



THE CHILDREN'S CORNER. 89 



TELL IT AGAIN. 

A little golden head close to my knee ; 
Sweet eyes of tender gentianella blue 
Fixed upon mine ; a little coaxing voice, — 
Only we two. 

" Tell it again." Insatiate demand ! 
And like a toiling spider where I sat 
I wove and spun the many-colored webs 
Of this and that, — 

Of Dotty Pringle sweeping out her hall — 
Of Greedy Bear, of Santa Claus the good, 
And how the little children met the Months 
Within the wood. 

" Tell it again !" And, though the sand-man came 
Dropping his drowsy grains in each blue eye, 
"Tell it again, — oh, just once more !" was still 
The sleepy cry. 

My spring-time violet, early snatched away 
To fairer gardens all unknown to me, — 
Gardens of whose invisible guarded gates, 
I have no key, — 

I weave my fancies now for other ears, 
Thy sister-blossom's, who beside me sits, 
Rosy, imperative, and quick to mark 
My lagging wits. 
8* 



9o 



THE CHILDREN'S CORNER. 

But still the stories bear thy name, are thine, 
Part of the sunshine of thy brief, sweet day, 
Though in. her little warm and living hands 
This book I lay. 
Susan Coolidge, in The Nezu Year's Bargain. 



BABY ARITHMETIC. 

" Rosebud, dainty and fair to see, 
Flower of the whole round world to me, 
Come this way on your dancing feet ; 
Say, how much do you love me, sweet?" 

Red little mouth drawn gravely down, 
White brow wearing a puzzled frown, 
Wise little baby Rose is she, 
Trying to measure her love for me : 

" 1 love you all the day and the night, 
All the dark and the sunshine bright, 
All the candy in every store, 
All my dollars, and more and more, 
Over the tops of the mountains high, 
All the world, 'way up to the sky." 

Unknown. 



THE CHILDREN'S CORNER. 



9 1 



BABY MARGUERITE. 

Marguerite 
Fairest flowers are called like thee, — 
Flowers that bloom in trinity 
Of faith and love and purity. 

Marguerite ! 
Sure that name the symbol is 
Of the worth and wealth of bliss 
That without thee we should miss. 

Marguerite ! 
Best of all our blessings, sweet ! 
Let us all pray to be meet 
To enter heaven with Marguerite. 



Living Age. 



THE REDBREAST LEGEND. 

Dear little children, listen, 

And a story I will tell, — 
The pretty Robin Redbreast : 

I know you love it well. 
You scatter crumbs each morning 

On the window-sill, I know, 
For the little Robin Redbreast, 

When the ground is white with snow. 



92 THE CHILDREN'S CORNER. 

The roughest village urchin, 

Who nothing spares besides, 
Would not harm the Robin Redbreast 

That in his care confides. 
The story's of a blessing 

Upon the Robin shed, 
And why he weareth on his heart 

That hue of brilliant red. 

The bitter path of sorrow 

Our Lord and Master trod 
(For only thus could sinners 

Be reconciled to God) ; 
Upon His blessed shoulder 

The shameful cross was borne, 
And with the thorny diadem 

His sacred brow was torn. 

The angels wept in heaven 

To see that dreadful sight; 
The sun obscured his glory ; 

The earth was wrapped in night ; 
But man He died to save 

Could mock and jeer that day, 
And follow Him with curses 

Along the bitter way. 

A little bird was hovering 
Around the Saviour's head ; 

It lighted on His forehead, 

Where the wounds so cruelly bled ; 

Then from the blood-stained chaplet 
With his tiny beak he drew 



THE CHILDREN'S CORNER. 93 

One crimson thorn, — the utmost 
His little strength could do. 

He bore aloft the trophy 

In his flight towards the sky, 
But it stained his russet feathers 

With a bright and roseate dye ; 
And from that hour he weareth 

(At least, so legends say) 
The crimson plumage on his breast 

In memory of that day. 

And he alone, of all the birds 

That sing in forest green, 
Dare venture to the hearth of man 

Or at his board be seen. 
Yes, love him well, dear children, 

And let your crumbs of bread 
For the Robin every morning 

On the window-sill be spread. 

And let him teach you, likewise, 

To remember, every day, 
In sleeping or in waking, 

At lessons or at play, 
However little it may seem, 

In all to do your best : 
So shall the Father love you, 

And His blessing on you rest. 

Unknown. 



94 THE CHILDREN'S CORNER. 



THE BLUEBELL. 

There is a story I have heard, — 

A poet learned it of a bird, 

And kept its music, every word, — 

A story of a dim ravine 

O'er which the towering tree-tops lean, 

With one blue rift of sky between ; 

And there, two thousand years ago, 
A little flower as white as snow 
Swayed in the silence to and fro. 

Day after day with longing eye 

The floweret watched the narrow sky, 

And fleecy clouds that floated by. 

And through the darkness, night by night, 
One gleaming star would climb the height 
And cheer the lonely floweret's sight. 

Thus, watching the blue heavens afar 
And the rising of its favorite star, 
A slow change came, but not to mar ; 

For softly o'er its petals white 
There crept a blueness like the light 
Of skies upon a summer night ; 



THE CHILDREN'S CORNER. 95 

And in its chalice, I am told, 
The bonny bell was formed to hold 
A tiny star that gleamed like gold. 

And bluebells of the Scottish land 
Are loved on every foreign strand 
Where stirs a Scottish heart or hand. 

Now, little people, sweet and true, 

I find a lesson here for you 

Writ in the floweret's bell of blue : 

The patient child whose watchful eye 
Strives after all things pure and high 
Shall take their image by and by. 

Unknown. 



A BIRD'S STORY. 

The snow is gone in the meadows, 

The violets smile again, 
The robins call in the tree-top, 

And gently falls the rain. 

The birds are building their houses 

In every bush and tree, 
But one poor little fellow 

A sorrowful tale tells me. 

"I'll tell you all about it," 

This little birdie cries : 
" Perhaps 'twill ease my sorrow ;" 

And then he wipes his eyes. 



9 6 THE CHILDREN'S CORXER. 

" 'Twas in the early summer 
Of just one year ago 

That all my troubles happened, 
My dreadful tale of woe. 

" In the time of building houses, 
In that old tree so high 

We built our family-mansion, 
My little wife and I. 

"We gathered twigs and feathers 
To build that nest of ours, 

And wove them all together 
In those happy sunny hours. 

"And in that nest one morning 
I saw, with my own eyes, 

Four tiny eggs were lying, 
As blue as summer skies. 

" Ah ! we were happy people, 
My little wife and I, — 

The happiest and the proudest 
In all that tree-top high. 

"But often storms are coming 
When all the sky seems clear : 

So on that happy morning 
Our woe was drawing near. 

" With a rushing and a stamping, 
And such a dreadful noise, 

Across the grass came running 
A lot of cruel bovs. 



THE CHILDREN'S CORNER. 

" Alas that I should say it ! — 
But oh, my words are true, — 

They climbed the tree and stole them, 
Our lovely eggs so blue. 

" Gone were our precious treasures, 

My dearest wife she died, 
My summer joys were ended," 

The little birdie cried. 

He wrung his claws, he bowed his head, 
The tears ran down his beak ; 

I was so sorry for his woes 
I felt that I must speak : 

"I'll tell them all about it, 
My friends the girls and boys ; 

They'd never take a bird's-nest 
To wreck a poor bird's joys. 

"They'll promise me, — I know them : 
Their words are good and true, — 

They'll promise all together 
To help this summer through 

"To keep bird-homes as happy 

As God above keeps ours, 
And free from cruel fingers 

Through all the summer's hours. 

" So build your nest, my little bird, 

Whether it rain or shine ; 
God keep your nest and keep ours too 

Through all the summer-time." 
9 



97 



98 THE CHILDREN'S CORNER. 

So, boys and girls, I promised : 

You see it rests with you 
To keep the bird-homes happy, 

And keep my promise too. 

E. H., in The Churchman. 



TO MY GODCHILD ALICE. 

Alice, Alice, little Alice, 

My new-christened, baby Alice ! 

Can there ever rhyme be found 
To express my wishes for thee 
In a silvery flowing worthy 

Of that silvery sound? 
Bonnie Alice, Lady Alice ! 

Sure that sweetest name must be 
A true omen to thee, Alice, 

Of life's long melody. 

Alice, Alice, little Alice, 

Mayst thou prove a golden chalice 

Filled with holiness, like wine ; 
With rich blessings running o'er, 
Yet replenished evermore 

From a Fount divine ! 
Alice, Alice, little Alice, 

When this future comes to thee, 
In thy young life's brimming chalice 

Keep some drops of balm for me. 



THE CHILDREN'S CORNER. gg 

Alice, Alice, little Alice, 

Mayst thou grow up a fair palace 

Fitly framed from roof to floor, 
Pure unto the very centre, 
While high thoughts like angels enter 

At the open door ! 
Alice, Alice, little Alice, 

When this goodly sight I see, 
In thy woman-heart's rich palace 

Keep one nook of love for me. 

Alice, Alice, little Alice, 

Sure the verse fails out of malice 

To the thoughts it feebly bears ; 
And thy name's sweet echoes, ranging 
From quaint rhyme to rhyme, are changing 

Unto voiceless prayers. 

God be with thee, little Alice ! 

Fill the chalice, build the palace, 

Here — unto eternity. 

Miss Mulock. 



BABY BUNN. 



Winsome Baby Bunn ! 
Brighter than the stars that rise 
In the dusky evening skies, 
Browner than the robin's wing, 
Clearer than the woodland spring, 
Are the eyes of Baby Bunn, — 

Winsome Baby Bunn. 



IOO THE CHILDREN'S CORNER. 

Smile, mother, smile, 
Thinking softly all the while 
Of a tender, blissful day 
When the dark eyes, so like these 
Of the cherub on your knees, 
Stole your girlish heart away. 
Oh, the eyes of Babv Bunn ! 
Rarest mischief will they do 
When once old enough to steal 
What their father stole from you ! 
, Smile, mother, smile ! 

Winsome Baby Bunn ! 
Milk-white lilies half unrolled 
Set in calyces of gold 
Cannot make his forehead fair 
With its rings of yellow hair; 
Scarlet berry cleft in twain 
By a wedge of pearly grain 
Is the mouth of Baby Bunn, — 

Winsome Baby Bunn. 

Weep, mother, weep, 
For the little one asleep 
With his head against your breast : 
Never in the coming years, 
Though he seeks for it with tears, 
Will he find so sweet a rest. 
Oh, the brow of Baby Bunn ! 
Oh, the scarlet mouth of Bunn ! 
One must wear its crown of thorns, 
Drink its cup of gall must one, 



THE CHILDREN'S CORNER. 101 

Though the trembling lips shall shrink, 
White with anguish, as they drink, 
And the temple sweat with pain 
Drops of blood like purple rain. 
Weep, mother, weep ! 

Winsome Baby Bunn ! 
Not the sea-shell's palest tinge, 
Not the daisy's rose-white fringe, 
Not the softest, faintest glow 
Of the sunset on the snow, 
Is more beautiful and sweet 
Than the wee pink hands and feet 
Of the little Baby Bunn, — 

Winsome Baby Bunn. 

Feet like these may lose the way, 
Wandering blindly from the right ; 
Pray, and sometimes will your prayers 
Be to him like golden stairs 
Built through darkness into light. 
Oh, the dimpled feet of Bunn, 
In their silken stockings dressed ! 
Oh, the dainty hands of Bunn, 
Hid like rose-leaves in your breast ! 
These shall grasp at jewels rare 
But to find them empty air; 
Those shall falter many a day 
Ere they reach the land of rest ! 
Pray, mother, pray ! 

Unknown. 



102 THE CHILDREN'S CORNER. 



LITTLE MAUD. 

O where is our dainty, our darling, 

The daintiest darling of all? 
Where is the voice on the stairway, 

Where is the voice in the hall ? 
The little short steps in the entry, 

The silvery laugh in the hall ? 
Where is our dainty, our darling, 

The daintiest darling of all, 
Little Maud ? 

The peaches are ripe in the orchard, 

The apricots ready to fall, 
And the grapes reach up to the sunshine 

Over the garden-wall. 
O rosebud of women ! where are you ? 

(She never replies to our call !) 
Oh, where is our dainty, our darling, 

The daintiest darling of all, 
Little Maud ? 

T. B. Aldrich. 



EMOTIONAL POEMS. 



DEDICATION TO IDYLLS OF THE 

KING. 

These to his memory — since he held them dear, 
Perchance as finding there unconsciously 
Some image of himself — I dedicate, 
I dedicate, I consecrate with tears, 
These Idylls. 

And indeed he seems to me 
Scarce other than my own ideal knight, 
" Who reverenced his conscience as his king; 
Whose glory was, redressing human wrong ; 
Who spake no slander, — no, nor listen'd to it ; 
Who loved one only and who clave to her," — 
Her — over all whose realms to their last isle, 
Commingled with the gloom of imminent war, 
The shadow of his loss drew like eclipse, 
Darkening the world. We have lost him : he is gone ; 
We know him now : all narrow jealousies 
Are silent ; and we see him as he moved, — 
How modest, kindly, all-accomplish'd, wise, 
With what sublime repression of himself, 
And in what limits, and how tenderly ; 

103 



104 EMOTIONAL POEMS. 

Not swaying to this faction or to that ; 
Not making his high place the lawless perch 
Of wing'd ambitions, nor a vantage-ground 
For pleasure ; but thro' all this tract of years 
Wearing the white flower of a blameless life, 
Before a thousand peering littlenesses, 
In that fierce light which beats upon a throne 
And blackens every blot ; for where is he, 
Who dares foreshadow for an only son 
A lovelier life, a more unstained, than his? 
Or how should England, dreaming of his sons, 
Hope more for these than some inheritance 
Of such a life, a heart, a mind as thine, 
Thou noble father of her kings to be? 
Laborious for her people and her poor, 
Voice in the rich dawn of an ampler day ; 
Far-sighted summoner of war and waste 
To fruitful strifes and rivalries of peace; 
Sweet nature gilded by the gracious gleam 
Of letters, dear to Science, dear to Art, 
Dear to thy land and ours, a Prince indeed 
Beyond all titles, and a household name, 
Hereafter, thro' all times, Albert the Good. 

Break not, O wornan's-heart, but still endure ; 
Break not, for thou art royal, but endure, 
Remembering all the beauty of that star 
Which shone so close beside thee, that ye made 
One light together, but has past and leaves 
The crown a lonely splendor. 

May all love — 
His love, unseen but felt — o'ershadow thee, 



EMOTIONAL POEMS. 105 

The love of all thy sons encompass thee, 
The love of all thy daughters cherish thee, 
The love of all thy people comfort thee, 
Till God's love set thee at his side again ! 

Tennyson. 



EACH TO HIS OWN. 

" Oh, my sweetest, and oh, my dearest, 
How rich the summer is, having you ! 

Over your head the sky is clearest, 
Warmest sunshine and freshest dew !" 

So with a lover's flattering breath 

The butterfly to his daisy saith. 

"Ah, my sweetest, and ah, my fairest !" 
Brushing her face with a tender touch, 

" Of all the flowers you are the rarest," — 
And all the meadows are full of such ! 

O royal rose sitting up alone, 

Is there anything more for you to own ? 

Ho, blue heavens that bend above her ! 

Ho, little daisy down in the grass ! 
Who would guess her to have a lover 

More than others we daily pass? 
Why love cometh or stays away 
Truly there's none but love can say. 

The little brown robin, leafy-nested, 
Quiet and small and plain is she ; 



106 EMOTIONAL POEMS. 

But listen to robin scarlet-breasted : 

He is as proud as proud can be. 
None could praise her with sweeter words 
If she were wife to the king of birds. 

The sweetest home in the forest's bosom 
None but the happy owner knows; 

And to be called the fairest blossom 
It isn't needful to be a rose. 

Oh, love, you surely are blind to see 

In all the meadows only me ! 

Truer than truth, love, when you flatter ! 

Say, do you know, O great grand skies, 
That all your shining's a useless matter 

Without — he said it ! — without these eyes? 
"Be proud, my daisy, my pearl," saith he, 
" For you are the crown o' the world to me !" 

Carl Spencer. 



COMPLETENESS. 

Not a natural flower can grow on earth 

Without a flower upon the spiritual side, — 

Substantial, archetypal, all aglow 

With blossoming causes, — not so far away 

That we whose spirit-sense is somewhat cleared 

May not catch something of the bloom and breath, 

Too vaguely apprehended, though, indeed, 

Still apprehended, consciously or not, 

And still transferred to picture, music, verse. 

Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 



EMOTIONAL POEMS. 



107 



INCOMPLETENESS. 

Nothing resting in its own completeness 
Can have worth or beauty, but alone 

Because it leads and tends to further sweetness, 
Fuller, higher, deeper, than its own. 

Spring's real glory dwells not in the meaning, 
Gracious though it be, of her blue hours, 

But is hidden in her tender leaning 

To the summer's richer wealth of flowers. 

Dawn is fair because the mists fade slowly 
Into day, which floods the world with light ; 

Twilight's mystery is so sweet and holy 
Just because it ends in starry night. 

Life is only bright when it proceedeth 
Towards a truer, deeper life above ; 

Human love is sweetest when it leadeth 
To a more divine and perfect love. 

Learn the mystery of progression duly : 
Do not call each glorious change decay ; 

But we know we only hold our treasures truly 
When it seems as if they passed away. 

Nor dare to blame God's gifts for incompleteness: 
In that want their beauty lies ; they roll 

Towards some infinite depth of love and sweetness 
Bearing onward man's reluctant soul. 

Adelaide A. Procter. 



108 EMOTIONAL POEMS. 



A LEGEND OF THE TURTLE DOVE. 

From the Danish. 

When on the cross our Lord lay dying 
Above His head three birds came flying, 
One white, one gray, — both fled together, 
The third a dove of softest feather. 
While from the awful sight retreating 
The two first birds in haste were fleeting, 
This turtle-dove, so true and tender, 
Some service to her Lord would render. 
She o'er the cruel tree would hover, 
Those tortured limbs she fain would cover ; 
She viewed the sacred blood fast flowing, 
Her heart with love and pity glowing. 
Coo, coo ! coo, coo ! is all she utters 
While o'er Him her soft pinion flutters : 
Coo, coo ! in tones that sigh and languish; 
Coo, coo ! for shame and bitter anguish. 
Since then her tones still echo sadness 
Though all around ring mirth and gladness. 



EMOTIONAL POEMS. 



109 



ONE DAY. 

I will tell you when they met : 

In the limpid days of spring ; 
Elder boughs were budding yet, 

Oaken boughs looked wintry still, 
But primrose and veined violet 
In the mossful turf were set, 

While meeting birds made haste to sing 

And build with right good-will. 

I will tell you when they parted : 

When plenteous autumn sheaves were brown, 
Then they parted, heavy-hearted. 

The full rejoicing sun looked down 
As grand as in the days before ; 

Only they had lost a crown, — 
Only to them those days of yore 
Could come back nevermore. 

When shall they meet ? I cannot tell, 

Indeed, when they shall meet again, 
Except some day in paradise : 

For this they wait, — one waits in pain. 
Beyond the sea of death love lies 

Forever, yesterday, to-day ; 
Angels shall ask them, " Is it well?" 

And they shall answer, " Yea." 

Christina G. Rossetti. 
10 



no EMOTIONAL POEMS. 



MAXIMUS. 

Many, if God should make them kings, 
Might not disgrace the throne He gave ; 

How few who could as well fulfil 
The holier office of a slave ! 

I hold him great who, for love's sake, 
Can give with generous, earnest will ; 

Yet he who takes for love's sweet sake 
I think I hold more generous still. 

I prize the instinct that can turn 

From vain pretence with proud disdain ; 

Yet more I prize a simple heart 
Paying credulity with pain. 

I bow before the noble mind 

That freely some great wrong forgives ; 
Yet nobler is the one forgiven 

Who bears that burden well and lives. 

It may be hard to gain and still 
To keep a lowly, steadfast heart \ 

Yet he who loses has to fill 
A harder and a truer part. 

Glorious it is to wear the crown 
Of a deserved and pure success ; 

He who knows how to fail has won 
A crown whose lustre is not less. 



EMOTIONAL POEMS. m 

Great may he be who can command 
And rule with just and tender sway ; 

Yet is diviner wisdom taught 
Better by him who can obey. 

Blessed are those who die for God 

And earn the martyr's crown of light ; 

Yet he who lives for God may be 
A greater conqueror in His sight. 

Adelaide A. Procter. 



NOT DEAD, BUT RISEN. 

He who died at Azim sends 
This to comfort all his friends : 

Faithful friends ! It lies, I know, 
Pale and white, and cold as snow ; 
And ye say, " Abdallah's dead !" 
Weeping at the feet and head. 
I can see your falling tears ; 
I can hear your sighs and prayers ; 
Yet I smile and whisper this : 
/am not the thing you kiss ; 
Cease your tears, and let it lie : 
It was mine : it is not I. 

Sweet friends ! What the women lave 
For the last sleep of the grave 



112 EMOTIONAL POEMS. 

Is a hut which I am quitting ; 

Is a garment no more fitting ; 

Is a cage from which at last, 

Like a bird, my soul has passed. 

Love the inmate, not the room ; 

The wearer, not the garb; the plume 

Of the eagle, not the bars 

That kept him from those splendid stars 

Loving friends ! Be wise, and dry 
Straightway every weeping eye. 
What ye lift upon the bier 
Is not worth a single tear. 

'Tis an empty sea-shell. — one 
Out of which the pearl has gone ; 
The shell is broken ; it lies there : 
The pearl, the all, the soul is here. 
'Tis an earthen jar whose lid 
Allah sealed the while it hid 
That treasure of his treasury, — 
A mind that loved him. Let it lie ; 
Let the shard be earth's once more, 
Since the gold is in his store ! 

Allah glorious ! Allah good ! 
Now thy world is understood ; 
Now the long, long wonder ends ! 
Yet ye weep, my erring friends, 
While the man whom ye call dead 
In unspoken bliss, instead, 
Lives and loves you, — lost, 'tis true, 
For the light that shines for you, 



EMOTIONAL POEMS. 

But in the light ye cannot see, 
Of undisturbed felicity, 
In a perfect paradise, 
And a life that never dies. 

Farewell, friends ! But not farewell : 
Where I am ye too shall dwell. 
I am gone before your face 
A moment's worth, a little space. 
When ye come where I have stept, 
Ye will wonder why ye wept ; 
Ye will know, by true love taught, 
That here is all, and there is naught. 
Weep awhile, if ye are fain, — 
Sunshine still must follow rain, — 
Only not at death ; for death, 
Now we know, is that first breath 
Which our souls draw when we enter 
Life, which is of all life centre. 

Be ye certain, all seems love 
Viewed from Allah's throne above ! 
Be ye stout of heart, and come 
Bravely onward to your home ! 
La-il Allah ! Allah la ! 
O love divine ! O love alway ! 



He who died at Azim gave 

This to those who made his grave. 

Edwin Arnold, 
io* 



1*3 



ii 4 EMOTIONAL POEMS. 



THE RIVER OF TIME. 

Oh, a wonderful stream is the river Time, 
As it runs through the realms of tears, 
With a faultless rhythm and a musical rhyme, 
And a broad 'ning sweep and a surge sublime, 
That bends with the ocean of years. 

How the waters are drifting like flakes of snow, 

And the summers like buds between ! 
And the year is the sheaf: so they come and they go 
On the river's breast, with its ebb and flow, 
As it glides through the shadow and sheen. 

There's a musical isle on the river of Time 
Where the softest of airs are playing ; 

There's a cloudless sky and tropical clime, 

And a song as sweet as vesper chime 

When the Junes with the roses are staying. 

And the name of this isle is the Long-Ago, 

And we bury our treasures there ; 
There are brows of beauty and bosoms of snow, 
There are heaps of dust, — but we love them so ! — 

There are trinkets and tresses of hair. 

There are fragments of song that nobody sings, 

And a part of an infant's prayer ; 
There's a lute unswept and a harp without strings, 
There are broken vows and pieces of rings, 

And the garment that she used to wear. 



EMOTIONAL POEMS. 



1*5 



There are hands that are waved when the fairy shore 

By the mirage is lifted in air ; 
And we sometimes hear through the turbulent roar 
Sweet voices we heard in days gone before, 

When the wind down the river is fair. 

Oh, remembered for aye be the blessed isle 

All the days of our life till night ; 
When the evening comes with its beautiful smile, 
And our eyes are closed to slumber a while, 

May our "greenwood" of soul be in sight. 

B. F. Taylor. 



JOY. 

Take Joy home, 
And make a place in thy great heart for her, 
And give her time to grow, and cherish her; 
Then will she come, and oft will sing to thee, 
When thou art working in the furrows ; ay, 
Or weeding in the sacred hour of dawn. 

It is a comely fashion to be glad : 

Joy is the grace we say to God. 

There is a rest remaining. Hast thou sinned ? 
There is a sacrifice. Lift up thy head ; 
The lovely world and the over-world alike 
Ring with a song eterne, a happy rede : 
"Thy Father loves thee." 

Jean Ingelow. 



Ii6 EMOTIONAL POEMS. 



REGRET. 

Oh, that word regret ! 
There have been nights and morns when we have 

sighed, 
" Let us alone, Regret ! We are content 
To throw thee all our past, so thou wilt sleep 
For aye." But it is patient, and it wakes ; 
It hath not learned to cry itself to sleep, 
But 'plaineth on the bed that it is hard. 

We did amiss when we did wish it gone 
And over : sorrows humanize our race ; 
Tears are the showers that fertilize the world ; 
And memory of things precious keepeth warm 
The heart that once did hold them. 

They are poor 
That have lost nothing ; they are poorer far 
Who, losing, have forgotten ; they most poor 
Of all who lose and wish they might forget. 
For life is one, and in its warp and woof 
There runs a thread of gold that glitters fair, 
And sometimes in the pattern shows most sweet 
Where there are sombre colors. It is true 
That we have wept. But oh, this thread of gold, — 
We would not have it tarnish. Let us turn 
Oft and look back upon the wondrous web, 
And when it shineth sometimes we shall know 
That memory is possession. 



EMOTIONAL POEMS. 117 

When I remember something which I had, 
But which is gone, and I must do without, 

I sometimes wonder how I can be glad, 

Even in cowslip-time, when hedges sprout; 

It makes me sigh to think on it, but yet 

My days will not be better days should I forget. 

When I remember something promised me, 
But which I never had, nor can have now, 

Because the promiser we no more see 

In countries that accord with mortal vow, — 

When I remember this I mourn, but yet 

My happier days are not the days when I forget. 

Jean Ingelow. 



THE HOUSE AND THE HEART. 

Every house with its garret, 
Lumbered with rubbish and relics, — 
Spinning-wheels leaning in corners, 
Chests under spider-webbed rafters, 
Brittle and yellow old letters, 
Grandfather's things, and grandmother's, — 
There over- head, at the midnight, 
Noises of creaking and stepping 
Startle the hush of the chambers, 
Ghosts on their tip-toes repassing. 
Every house with its garden ; 
Some little plot, — a half-acre, 
Or a mere strip by the windows, 
Flower-beds and narrow box-borders, 
Something spicily fragrant, 



n8 EMOTIONAL POEMS. 

Something azure and golden, — 
There the small feet of the sparrow 
Star the fresh mould round the roses, 
And in the bright, lonely moonlight 
Love-whispers dreamily mingle. 

Every heart with its garret, 
Clumbered with relics and rubbish, — 
Wheels that are silent forever, 
Leaves that are faded and broken, 
Foolish old wishes and fancies, 
Cobwebs of doubt and suspicion, 
Useless, unbeautiful, growing 
Year by year thicker and faster, — 
Naught but a fire or a moving 
Ever can clear it or clean it. 
Every heart with its garden, — 
Some little corner kept sacred, 
Fragrant and pleasant with blossoms, — 
There the forget-me-nots cluster, 
And pure love-violets hidden, 
Guessed but by sweetness all round them ; 
Some little strip in the sunshine, 
Cheery and warm, for above it 
Rest the deep, beautiful heavens, 
Blue, and beyond, and forever. 

E. R. Sill. 



There are nettles everywhere, 
But smooth green grasses are more common still : 
The blue of heaven is larger than the cloud. 

Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 



EMOTIONAL POEMS. 



119 



OVER THE RIVER. 



The following lines allude to a little girl who died during 
Christmas time. 



Over the river the little boat flies, 

And the helmsman is silent and grim ; 

He watches the sail with careless eyes, 
And wonders who's waiting for him. 

" How strange it seems," the boatman said, 
"I should alway come over alone, 

Nor ever bring, from homes of dead, 
Onyx or pearl, or jasper-stone. 

"Yet oft I think if men but knew 
To live by faith, and not by sight, 

They'd long to prove the promise true 
And sail away with me to-night." 

His shallop grated on the shore, 
While on her bow a shadowy light 

Came streaming from an open door 
And crimsoned all the snow at night. 

" I'll track the ray, for well I know 
It pledges some fair freight to me. 

Ha, ha ! it dances over the snow 
And beckons me on to see." 



120 EMOTIONAL POEMS. 

So up the hill the old man trod, 
Then silently linger' d in awe, — 

The rays shot out from the house of God 
And played on the tresseled floor. 

Feeling his way through dim-lit aisle, 
He heeded nor emblem nor wreath ; 

Close by the altar he rested awhile 
And gazed on the scene beneath. 

Fair young girls, with faces bright, 
Were decking God's fair house that night ; 
While others stitched on fair white cloth 
The emblem, sign, and holy cross. 

Then out spake the Ferryman, hearty and hale, 
As he leant with his arm on the chancel rail : 
"Your wreaths are green, but cheeks are pale, 
My boat is near with panting sail, 
The water is calm and my skiff is light, 
Ho ! who will go over the river to-night?" 

In the broad aisle 

She lingered awhile, 

Then beckoned with bunch of green cedar, 

Till, seeing the boatman reluctant to heed her, 

She answered his call with all her might, — 

" Ho ! I will go over the river to-night !" 

Two twining arms clasping me tight, — 
Dropt the green bunches of cedar, — 
" Papa, I am going, 
While it is snowing, 

Over the river to-night ! 



EMOTIONAL POEMS. 121 

" Mamma went away in twilight-time, 
And she kissed me a soft good-night ; 

And now I am going, 

While it is snowing, 
Over the river to-night. 

You will miss me, papa, 

But the boat will come back 
On a summer's beautiful night : 

I'll wait by the door 

At the further shore, 
And bid you no more ' Good-night !' " 

James F. Hoffman. 



THE GOLDEN SIDE. 

There is many a rest in the road of life 

If we only would stop to take it, 
And many a tone from the better land 

If the querulous heart would make it. 
To the sunny soul that is full of hope, 

And whose beautiful trust ne'er faileth, 
The grass is green and the flowers bright 

Though the wintry storm prevaileth. 

Better to hope, though the clouds hang low, 

And to keep the eyes still lifted ; 
For the sweet blue sky will soon peep thro' 

When the ominous clouds are lifted. 
There was never a night without a day, 

Or an evening without a morning; 
And the darkest hour, as the proverb goes, 

Is the hour before the dawning. 
11 



122 EMOTIONAL POEMS. 

There is many a gem in the path of life 

Which we pass in our idle pleasures 
That is richer far than the jewelled crown 

Or the miser's hoarded treasures: 
It may be the love of a little child, 

Or a mother's prayers to heaven, 
Or only a beggar's grateful thanks 

For a cup of water given. 

Better to weave in the web of life 

A bright and golden filling, 
And to do God's will with a ready heart 

And hands that are swift and willing, 
Than to snap the minute delicate threads 

Of our curious life asunder, 
And then blame heaven for the tangled ends, 

And sit, and grieve, and wonder. 

Unknown. 



BROUGHT TO LIGHT. 

Some miners were sinking a shaft in Wales 
(I know not where ; but the facts have filled 
A chink in my brain, while other tales 

Have been swept away, as, when pearls are spilled, 
One pearl rolls into a chink in the floor), — 
Somewhere, then, where God's light is killed, 

And men tear, in the dark, at the earth's heart-core. 
These men were at work, when their axes knocked 
A hole in a passage closed years before. 



EMOTIONAL POEMS. 123 

A slip in the earth, I suppose, had blocked 
This gallery suddenly up with a heap 
Of rubble, as safe as a chest is locked, 

Till these men picked it and 'gan to creep 

In on all-fours j then a loud shout ran 

Round the black roof, " Here's a man asleep !" 

They all pushed forward ; and scarce a span 
From the mouth of the passage, in sooth, the lamp 
Fell on the upturned face of a man ! 

No taint of death, no decaying damp ; 
Had touched that fair young brow whereon 
Courage had set its glorious stamp ; 

Calm as a monarch on his throne, 

Lips hard clenched, — no shadow of fear, — 

He sat there taking his rest alone : 

He must have been there for many a year. 
The spirit had fled ; but there was its shrine, 
In clothes of a century old, or near. 

The dry and embalming air of the mine 
Had arrested the natural hand of decay ; 
Nor faded the flesh, nor dimmed a line. 

Who was he then ? No man might say 
When the passage had suddenly fallen in ; 
Its memory, even, was past away. 

In their great rough arms, begrimed with coal, 

They took him up (as a tender lass 

Will carry a babe) from that darksome hole 



124 



EMOTIONAL POEMS. 



To the outer world of the short warm grass. 
Then up spake one, " Let us send for Bess," — 
She is seventy-nine come Martinmas. 

So they brought old Bess, with her silver hair, 
To the side of the hill where the dead man lay, 
Ere the flesh had crumbled in outer air. 

And the crowd around him all gave way 
As with tottering steps old Bess drew nigh 
And bent o'er the face of the unchanged clay. 

Then suddenly rang a sharp low cry ! 
Bess sank on her knees and wildly tossed 
Her withered arms in the summer sky : 

" O Willie, Willie ! my lad, my lost ! 
The Lord be praised ! After sixty years 
I see ye again ! The tears ye cost, 

" O Willie, darlin', were bitter tears. 
They never looked for ye under ground ; 
They told me a tale to mock my fears ; 

" They said ye were over the sea, — ye'd found 
A lass ye loved better nor me, — to explain 
How ye'd a-vanished fro' sight and sound ! 

"O darlin', a long, long night o' pain 
I ha' lived since then, and now I'm old ! 
Seems a'most as if youth was come back again, 

"Seeing ye there, wi' your locks o' gold 
And limbs so straight as ashen beams, — 
I a'most forget how the years ha' rolled 



EMOTIONAL POEMS. 



"5 



"Between us ! O Willie, how strange it seems 
To see ye here, as I've seen ye oft, 
Over and over again, in dreams !" 

In broken words like these, with soft 
Low wails, she rocked herself. And none 
Of the rough men around her scoffed ; 

For surely a sight like this the sun 
Had hardly looked upon : face to face, 
The old dead love and the living one ! 

The dead, with its undimmed fleshly grace 
At the end of threescore years ; the quick 
Puckered and withered, without a trace 

Of its warm girl beauty, — a wizard's trick, 
Bringing the love and the youth that were 
Back to the eyes of the old and sick. 

Those bodies were just of one age, yet there 
Death, clad in Youth, had been standing still, 
While Life had been fretting itself threadbare. 

But a moment was come — as a moment will 
To all who have loved and been parted here, 
And have toiled alone up the thorny hill — 

When, at the top, as their eyes see clear 
Over the mists in this vale below, 
Mere specks their trials and toils appear 

Beside the eternal rest they know. 
Death came to old Bess that night, and gave 
The welcome summons that she should go. 

11* 



126 ' EMOTIONAL POEMS. 

And now, though the rains and winds may rave, 
Nothing can part them. Deep and wide 
The miners that evening dug one grave; 

So at last, while the summers and winters glide, 
Old Bess and young Willie sleep side by side. 

All the Year Round. 



PRIDE. 



I had a little rosebud given to me ; 

I dropped it as I wore it one fair day. 
I would not turn to seek it, — no ; for then 

'Twere plain I prized it, — so I went my way. 

I had a love that made my life a joy ; 

It seemed to falter one bright summer day. 
I could have won it back with but a smile ; 

I would not smile, and so I went my way. 

O Pride ! thou stealest our most treasured things, 
Things which to gain we'd risk all else beside. 

Lost ! lost my rosebud, lost my love ! Alas ! 
I might have found them but for thee, O Pride ! 

Unknown. 



THE MYSTERIES. 

Once on my mother's breast, a child, I crept, 

Holding my breath ; 
Then, safe and sad, lay shuddering, and wept 

At the dark mystery of Death ! 



EMOTIONAL POEMS. t2 j 

Weary and weak, and worn with all unrest, 

Spent with the strife, 
Oh, mother, let me weep upon thy breast 

At the sad mystery of Life ! 

W. D. Howells. 



THE DAYS THAT ARE NO MORE. 

Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean ! 
Tears from the depth of some divine despair 
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes, 
In looking on the happy autumn fields 
And thinking of the days that are no more. 

Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail 
That brings our friends up from the under world, 
Sad as the last which reddens over one 
That sinks with all we love below the verge, 
So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more. 

Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns 

The earliest pipe of half-awakened birds 

To dying ears, when unto dying eyes 

The casement slowly grows a glimmering square, 

So sad, so strange, the days that are no more. 

Dear as remembered kisses after death, 
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feigned 
On lips that are for others ; deep as love, 
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret, 
Oh ! death in life, the days that are no more. 

Tennyson. 



128 EMOTIONAL POEMS. 



A LOST CHORD. 

Seated one day at the organ 
I was weary and ill at ease, 

And my fingers wandered idly 
Over the noisy keys. 

I do not know what I was playing, 
Or what I was dreaming then, 

But I struck one chord of music 
Like the sound of a great Amen ! 

It flooded the crimson twilight, 
Like the close of an angel's psalm, 

And it lay on my fevered spirit 
With a touch of infinite calm ; 

It quieted pain and sorrow, 
Like love overcoming strife ; 

It seemed the harmonious echo 
From our discordant life ; 

It linked all perplexed meanings 

Into one perfect peace, 
And trembled away into silence 

As if it were loth to cease. 

I have sought, but I seek it vainly, 
That one lost chord divine, 

That came from the soul of the organ 
And entered into mine. 



EMOTIONAL POEMS. 



129 



It may be that Death's bright angel 
Will speak in that chord again ; 

It may be that only in heaven 
I shall hear that grand Amen ! 

Adelaide A. Procter. 



A WOMAN'S QUESTION. 



Do you know you have asked me for the costliest 
thing 

Ever made by the Hand above, — 
A woman's heart, and a woman's life, 

And a woman's wonderful love? 



Do you know you have asked for this priceless 
thing 

As a child might ask for a toy ? 
Demanding what others have died to win 

With the reckless dash of a boy. 

You have written my lesson of duty out, 

Man-like you have questioned me, 
Now stand at the bar of my woman's soul 

Until I shall question thee. 

You require your mutton shall always be hot, 
Your socks and your shirts shall be whole ; 

I require your heart to be true as God's stars, 
And pure as heaven your soul. 



130 EMOTIONAL POEMS. 

You require a cook for your mutton and beef; 

I require a far better thing. 
A seamstress you're wanting for stockings and 
shirts; 

I look for a man and a king, — 

A king for a beautiful realm called Home, 

And a man that the Maker, God, 
Shall look upon, as he did the first, 

And say, "It is very good." 

I am fair and young, but the rose will fade 
From my soft young cheek some day, — 

Will you love me then, 'mid the falling leaves, 
As you did 'mid the bloom of May? 

Is your heart an ocean so strong and deep 

I may launch my all on its tide ? 
A loving woman finds heaven or hell 

On the day she is made a bride. 

I require all things that are grand and true, — 

All things that a man should be ; 
If you give this all, I would stake my life 

To be all you demand of me. 

If you cannot do this, a laundress and cook 

You can hire, with little to pay; 
But a woman's heart and a woman's life 

Are not to be won that way. 

Lena Lathrop. 



EMOTIONAL POEMS. 



J3 1 



REST. 

O Earth, lie heavily upon her eyes ; 

Seal her sweet eyes weary of watching, Earth ; 

Lie close around her ; leave no room for mirth 
With its harsh laughter, nor for sound of sighs. 
She hath no questions, she hath no replies, 

Hushed in and curtained with a blessed dearth 

Of all that irked her from her hour of birth, — 
With stillness that is almost Paradise. 
Darkness more clear than noonday holdeth her, 

Silence more musical than any song ; 
Even her very heart has ceased to stir. 
Until the morning of eternity 
Her rest shall not begin nor end, but be ; 

And when she wakes she will not think it long. 

Christina G. Rossetti. 



A POSSIBILITY. 

The thought of a mourning mother. 

My little baby is buried to-day — 

Gone ! — down in the depths of the church-yard clay ; 

Up in the sky so dim and gray, 

Who will take care of my little baby ? 



132 



EMOTIONAL POEMS. 



Who will teach her her wings to fly, 
Her tiny limbs their new work to ply, 
Her soft dumb lips to sing gloriously,— 
Oh, who will teach my little baby ? 

I have a mother who long ago died,: — 
We speak of her now with our tears all dried, — 
She may know my pretty one, come to her side, 
And be glad to see my little baby. 

Who will kiss her? — her waxen feet 

That have never walked, and her small hands sweet, 

Where I left a white lily, as was meet — 

Who will kiss my little baby? 

Christ, born of a woman, hear, oh, hear ! 
Thine angels are far off, she seems near : 
Give thou my child to my mother dear, 
And I'll weep no more for my little baby. 

Surely in heaven thy saints so blest 

Keep a mother's heart in a mother's breast : 

Give her my lamb, and I shall rest 

If my mother takes care of my little baby. 

Miss Mulock. 



FRIEND SORROW. 

Do not cheat thy heart and tell her 

" Grief will pass away, 
Hope for fairer times in future, 

And forget to-day." 



EMOTIONAL POEMS. 

Tell her, if you will, that sorrow 

Need not come in vain ; 
Tell her that the lesson taught her 

Far outweighs the pain. 

Cheat her not with the old comfort, 

"Soon she will forget," — 
Bitter truth, alas ! but matter 

Rather for regret. 
Bid her not " Seek other pleasures, 

Turn to other things ;" 
Rather nurse her caged sorrow 

Till the captive sings. 



Rather bid her go forth bravely 

And the stranger meet, — 
Not as foe, with spear and buckler, 

But as dear friends meet. 
Bid her with a strong clasp hold her 

By her dusky wings, 
Listening for the murmured blessing 

Sorrow always brings. 

Adelaide A. Procter. 



*33 



GOD'S ACRE. 



I like that ancient Saxon phrase which calls 
The burial-ground "God's Acre." It is just 

It consecrates each grave within its walls, 

And breathes a benison o r er the sleeping dust. 

12 



134 



EMOTIONAL POEMS. 



God's Acre ! Yes, that blessed name imparts 
Comfort to those who in the grave have sown 

The seed that they had garnered in their hearts, — 
Their bread of life, alas ! no more their own. 

Into its furrows shall we all be east, 

In the sure faith that we shall rise again 

At the great harvest, when the Archangel's blast 
Shall winnow, like a fan, the chaff and grain. 

Then shall the good stand in immortal bloom 
In the fair gardens of that second birth, 

And each bright blossom mingle its perfume 

With that of flowers which never bloomed on earth. 

With thy rude ploughshare, Death, turn up the sod 
And spread the furrow for the seed we sow : 

This is the field and acre of our God, 

This is the place where human harvests grow. 

Longfellow 



GONE BEFORE. 

There's a beautiful face in the silent air 

Which follows me ever and near, 
With smiling eyes and amber hair, 
With voiceless lips, yet with silent prayer 
That I feel but cannot hear. 

The dimpled hands and ringlets of gold 

Lie low in a marble sleep ; 
I stretch my arm for the clasp of old, 
But the empty air is strangely cold, 

And my vigil alone I keep. 



EMOTIONAL POEMS. 

There's a sinless brow with radiant crown, 

And a cross laid down in the dust ; 
There's a smile where not a shade comes now, 
And tears no more from those dear eyes flow, 
So sweet in their innocent trust. 

Ah, well ! and summer is coming again, 

Singing her same old song; 
But, oh ! it sounds like a sob of pain, 
As it floats, in the sunshine and the rain, 

O'er hearts of the world's great throng. 

There's a beautiful region above the skies, 

And I long to reach its shore ; 
For I know I shall find my treasure there, 
The laughing eyes and amber hair 

Of the loved one gone before. 

Unknown 



135 



THE BABY. 



Another little wave upon the sea of life, 
Another soul to save amid its toil and strife ; 
Two more little feet to walk the dusty road, 
To choose, where two paths meet, the narrow or 
the broad. 

Two more little hands to work for good or ill, 
Two more little eyes, another little will ; 
Another heart to love, receiving love again, — 
And so the baby came, a thing of joy and pain. 

Providence Journal. 



136 EMOTIONAL POEMS. 



THE ANGELS IN THE HOUSE. 

Three pairs of dimpled arms as white as snow 

Held me in soft embrace ; 
Three little cheeks, like velvet peaches soft, 

Were placed against my face. 

Three tiny pairs of eyes so clear, so deep, 

Looked up in mine this even ; 
Three pairs of lips kissed me a sweet " Good-night" ! 

Three little forms from Heaven. 

Ah 1 it is well that " little ones" should love us; 

It lights our faith, when dim, 
To know that once our blessed Saviour bade them 

Bring " little ones" to Him. 

And said he not, " Of such is Heaven," and bless'd 
them, 
And held them to his breast? 
Is it not sweet to know this when they leave us? 
'Tis where they go to rest. 

Unknown. 



TIRED MOTHERS. 

A little elbow leans upon your knee, — 
Your tired knee that has so much to bear, — 

A child's dear eyes are looking lovingly 
From underneath a thatch of tangled hair. 



EMOTIONAL POEMS. 



137 



Perhaps you "do not heed the velvet touch 

Of warm, moist fingers, folding yours so tight ; 

You do not prize this blessing overmuch, 
You almost are too tired to pray to-night. 

But it is blessedness ! A year ago 
I did not see it as I do to-day, — 

We are all so dull and thankless, and too slow- 
To catch the sunshine till it slips away, — 

And now it seems surpassing strange to me 
That, while I wore the badge of motherhood, 

I did not kiss more oft and tenderly 

The little child that brought me only good. 

And if, some night when you sit down to rest, 

You miss this elbow from your tired knee, 
This restless curling head from off your breast, 

This lisping tongue that chatters constantly ; 
If from your own the dimpled hands had slipped, 

And ne'er would nestle in your palm again; 
If the white feet into their grave had tripped, 

I could not blame you for your heartache then. 

I wonder so that mothers ever fret 

At little children clinging at their gown, 
Or that the footprints, when the days are wet, 

Are ever black enough to make them frown. 
If I could find a little muddy boot, 

Or cap, or jacket, on my chamber-floor ; 
If I could kiss a rosy, restless foot, 

And hear it patter in my house once more ; 
12* 



138 



EMOTIONAL POEMS. 

If I could mend a broken cart to-day, 

To-morrow make a kite to reach the sky, 
There is no woman in God's world could say 

She was more blissfully content than I. 
But, ah ! the dainty pillow next my own 

Is never rumpled by a shining head, 
My singing birdling from its nest is flown : 

The little boy I used to kiss is dead ! 

Mrs. Albert Smith. 



A VALENTINE 

OF THE ELIZABETHAN AGE IN AN OLD ALBUM, 
DATED 1583. 

When slumber first uncloudes my brain 

And thoughte is free, 
And sense, refreshed, renews her reigne, 

I thinke of thee. 

When nexte in prayer to God above 

I bende my knee, 
Then, when I pray for those I love, 

I pray for Thee. 

And when the duties of the day 

Demand of mee 
To rise and journey on life's way, 

I work for Thee. 



139 



EMOTIONAL POEMS. 

Or if, perchance, I sing some lay, 

Whate'er it bee, 
All that the idle verses say, 

They say of thee. 

For, if an eye whose liquid lighte, 

Gleams like the sea 
They sing, or tresses browne and brighte, 

They sing of thee. 

And if a wearie mood, or sad, 

Possesses mee, 
One thoughte can all times make mee glad, 

The thoughte of thee. 

And when once more upon my bed, 

Full wearily, 
In sweet repose I lay my head, 

I dream of thee. 

In short, one only wish I have, — 

To live for thee ; 
Or gladly, if one pang 'twould save, 

I'd die for thee. 

Unknown. 



i4o 



EMOTIOXAL POEMS. 



THE BELLS OF SHANDON.* 



Sabbata pango, 
Funera plango, 
Solemnia clango. 

Inscription on an old bell. 



With deep affection 
And recollection 
I often think of 

Those Shandon Bells, 
Whose sound so wild would, 
In days of childhood, 
Fling round my cradle 

Their magic spells. 
On this I ponder, 
And still grow fonder, 

Sweet Cork, of thee, 
With thy Bells of Shandon, 
That sound so grand on 
The pleasant waters 

Of the river Lee. 

I've heard bells chimin' 
Full many a clime in, 
Tolling sublime in 
Cathedral shrine, 



* An abbev in Cork, celebrated for its, cbime of bells. 



EMOTIONAL POEMS. 141 

While at a glib rate 

Brass tongues would vibrate ; 

But all their music 

Spoke naught like thine. 
For memory, dwelling 
On each proud swelling 
Of thy belfry knelling 

Its bold notes free, 
Made the Bells of Shandon 
Sound more grand on 
The pleasant waters 

Of the river Lee. 

I've heard bells tollin' 
Old Adrian's mole in, 
Their thunders rollin' 

From the Vatican, 
And cymbals glorious 
Swinging uproarious 
In the gorgeous turrets 

Of Notre Dame ; 
But thy sounds are sweeter 
Than the dome of Peter 
Flings o'er the Tiber, 

Pealing solemnly.. 
Oh, the Bells of Shandon ! 
They sound so grand on 
The pleasant waters 

Of the river Lee. 

There's a bell in Moscow ; 
While in town and kiosk — oh, 
In St. Sophia — 
The Turkman gets, 



142 EMOTIONAL POEMS. 

And loud in air 
Calls men to prayer 
From the tapering summit 

Of tall minarets. 
Such empty phantom 
I freely grant them ; 
But there's a phantom 

More dear to me : 
'Tis the Bells of Shandon, 
That sound so grand on 
The pleasant waters 

Of the river Lee. 



Father Prout. 



J A N E T T E. 

I was but the village weaver's girl, 

He only the hireling of a churl ; 

But into our lives there dropped a pearl. 

He drove the kine by meadow and dale, 
And searched the hollows in every vale 
For a flower of love to tell the tale. 

A spring-time daisy, waxen white, 

Lay on my breast when fell the night, 

And the stars shone down with a tender li^ht. 



'&' 



He to the plough, and I to the loom, 
Tilling and toiling; yet love may bloom, 
And fill our hearts with its sweet perfume. 



EMOTIONAL POEMS. 

Heart of mine ! I have waited long, — 
Life and love are a poet's song, — 
Life is fleeting, but love is strong. 



'Twas lonely waiting, but God knew best ; 

Lay me now by my love to rest, 

A spring-time daisy upon my breast. 

Unknown. 



143 



A BEAUTIFUL THOUGHT. 

Chisel in band stood a sculptor-boy, 

With his marble block before him, 
And his face lit up with a smile of joy 

As an angel-dream passed o'er him. 
He carved the dream on that shapeless stone 

With many a sharp incision, 
With heaven's own light the sculptor shone : 

He had caught that angel-vision. 

Sculptors of life are we, as we stand 

With our souls uncarved before us, 
Waiting the hour when, at God's command, 

Our life-dream passes o'er us. 
If we carve it then on the yielding stone 

With many a sharp incision, 
Its heavenly beauty shall be our own, 

Our lives that angel-vision. 

Bishop Doane. 



144 EMOTIONAL POEMS. 



A FACE. 

Whene'er my lady turns her eyes on me, 

A blue forget-me-not in each I see ; 

And when the sweet flowers bloom in garden-plots, 

Her blue eyes smile from the forget-me-nots. 

Unknown. 



WE TWO. 



It's we two, it's we two, it's we two for aye, 
All the world and we two, and heaven be our stay ! 
Like a laverock in the lift, sing, O bonny bride ! 
All the world was Adam once, with Eve by his side. 

What's the world, my lass, my love, what can it do ? 
I am thine, and thou art mine : life is sweet and new. 
If the world have missed the mark, let it stand by ; 
For we two have gotten leave, and once more we'll try. 

Like a laverock in the lift, sing, O bonny bride ! 
It's we two, it's we two, happy side by side. 
Take a kiss from me, thy man. Now the song begins : 
" All is made afresh for us, and the brave heart wins." 

When the darker days come, and no sun shall shine, 
Thou shalt dry my tears, lass, and I'll dry thine. 
It's we two, it's we two, while the world's away, 
Sitting by the golden sheaves on our wedding-day. 

Jean Ingelow. 



EMOTIONAL POEMS. 145 



DAY BY DAY. 

Every day has its dawn, 

Its soft and silent eve, 
Its noontide hours of bliss or bale, — 

Why should we grieve ? 

Why do we heap huge mounds of years 

Before us and behind, 
And scorn the little days that pass 

Like angels on the wind ? 

Each turning round a small sweet face, 

As beautiful as near, 
Because it is so small a face 

We will not see it clear ; 

We will not clasp it as it flies, 

And kiss its lips and brow ; 
We will not bathe our wearied souls 

In its delicious Now. 

And so it turns from us, and goes 

Away in sad disdain ; 
Though we would give our lives for it, 

It never comes again. 

Yet every day has its dawn, 
Its noontide, and its eve : 
Live while we live, giving God thanks, 
He will not let us grieve. 

Miss Mulock. 
13 



146 EMOTIONAL POEMS. 



TO-MORROW. 

Were I but asked to name a word 

Most full of joy and sorrow, 
The sweetest yet the saddest heard, 

My soul would say, "To-morrow." 

To-morrow ! and our brave ships go, 

With sails agleam with glory ; 
To-morrow ! and the wrecks are low, 

With none to tell the story. 

To-morrow hope shall spread her wing, 
And seek new scenes of gladness ; 

To-morrow grief may cypress bring, 
And fill our homes with sadness. 

We meet, touch hands, look into eyes 

Too deep for love's divining; 
To-morrow slips the frail disguise, 

And shows the heart-light shining. 

And yet to-morrow may reveal 

An evil light out-burning, 
In-born to blight, where others heal, 

The fond hearts to it turning. 

And so I say the sweetest word 
Our speech may know or borrow 

Is saddest that was ever heard, 
Index of joy and sorrow. 

Kate M. Sherwood, in The Capitol. 



EMOTIONAL POEMS. 147 



THE WONDER OF DEATH. 

" She is dead !" they said to him, " Come away ; 
Kiss her and leave her, thy love is clay !" 

They smoothed her tresses of dark-brown hair, 
On her forehead of snow they laid it fair ; 

Over her eyes, which gazed too much, 
They drew the lids with a tender touch ; 

With a tender touch they closed up well 
The sweet thin lips that had secrets to tell ; 

About her brows and beautiful face 
They tied her veil and marriage lace; 

And over her bosom they crossed her hands. 

" Come away," they said ; " God understands !" 

And there was silence, and nothing there 
But silence and scents of eglantier, 

And jasmine, and roses, and rosemary. 

And they said, "Asa lady should lie, lies she." 

And they held their breath as they left the room, 
With a shudder to glance at its stillness and gloom ; 

But he — who loved her too well to dread 

The stately, the lovely, and the beautiful dead — 



148 EMOTIONAL POEMS. 

He lit his lamp, and took the key 

And turned it. Alone again he and she, 

He and she ; but she would not speak, 

Though he kissed in the old place the quiet cheek. 

He and she; yet she would not smile, 

Though he called her the name she loved erewhile. 

He and she ; still she did not move 
To any one passionate whisper of love. 

Then he said, " Cold lips, and breast without breath, 
Is there no voice, no language, of death, 

" Dumb to the ear and still to the sense, 
But to the heart and soul distinct, intense? 

" See ! now I will listen with soul, not ear : 
What was the secret of dying, dear? 

" Was it the infinite wonder of all 
That you ever could let life's flower fall? 

" Or was it a greater marvel to feel 
The perfect calm o'er the agony steal? 

" Was the miracle greater to find how deep, 
Beyond all dreams, sank downward that sleep ? 

" Did life roll back its record, dear, 

And show, as they say it does, past things clear ? 

"And was it the innermost heart of the bliss 
To find out so, what a wisdom love is ? 



EMOTIONAL POEMS. 



149 



" O perfect dead ! O dead most dear ! 
I hold the breath of my soul to hear ; 

" I listen as deep as to horrible hell, 

As high as to heaven, and you do not tell ! 

"There must be pleasure in dying, sweet, 
To make you so placid from head to feet. 

" I would tell you, darling, if I were dead, 
And 'twere your hot tears upon my brow shed ; 

" I would say, though the Angel of Death had laid 
His sword on my lips to keep it unsaid ; 

"You should not ask vainly, with streaming eyes, 
Which of all death's was the chiefest surprise, — 

" The very strangest and suddenest thing 
Of all the surprises dying must bring." 

Ah, foolish world ! Oh, most kind dead ! 
Though she told me, who will believe it was said ? 

Who will believe what he heard her say, 

With the sweet soft voice, in the dear old way ? 

" The utmost wonder is this : I hear 

And see you, and love you, and kiss you, dear, 

" And am your angel, who was your bride ; 
And know that, though dead, I have never died !" 

Edwin Arnold. 

.3* . 



1 5° 



EMOTIONAL POEMS. 



PRAYER. 



Lord, what a change within us one short hour 
Spent in thy presence will prevail to make ! 
What heavy burdens from our bosoms take, 
What parched grounds refresh, as with a shower ! 
We kneel, and all around us seems to lower ; 
We rise, and all the distant and the near 
Stand forth in sunny outline brave and clear ! 
We kneel how weak, we rise how full of power ! 
Why, therefore, should we do ourselves this wrong,- 
Or others, — that we are not always strong ; 
That we are ever overborne with care ; 
That we should ever weak or heartless be, 
Anxious or troubled, when with us is prayer, 
And joy and strength and courage are with thee ? 

Dean Trench. 



UNTOLD. 



A face may be woful white to cover a heart that's aching ; 
A face may be full of light over a heart that's breaking. 

'Tis not the heaviest grief for which we wear the willow ; 
The tears bring slow relief which only wet the pillow. 

Hard may be burdens borne, though friends would fain 

unbind them ; 
Harder are crosses worn where none save Christ can 

find them. 



EMOTIONAL POEMS. 



!5! 



For the loved who leave our side our souls are well- 
nigh riven ; 

But, ah ! for the graves we hide have pity, tender 
Heaven ! 

Soft be the words and sweet that soothe the spoken 

sorrow ; 
Alas for the weary feet that may- not rest to-morrow ! 
Margaret E. Sangster, in the Independent. 



BETTER UNSAID. 

When the wild waves of passion rise high in the soul, 

And the sunlight of mildness has fled, 
Oh, hush the mad sentence that fain would be heard : 

It is better, far better, unsaid. 

A sinner has wandered away from the truth, 

By his poor erring nature been led ; 
But drive him not onward by stinging rebukes : 

They are better, far better, unsaid. 

And the hearts that surround us, that make life so dear, 

By words can they often be bled ; 
But a lifetime of sorrow may come at their birth : 

They're better, far better, unsaid. 

Never lend to false flattery an utterance of thine, 

Let truth be the standard instead : 
At best they are useless, these unmeaning words, 

And better, far better, unsaid. 



152 EMOTIONAL POEMS. 

Ah ! well 'twere with mankind if words of deceit, 

Of slander and passion so dread, 
More seldom were uttered, and better, 

Far better, if a// were unsaid. 

Unknown. 



DYING. 



Good-night, my darling ! Shadows dim 

Along the woods and far across the hills are lying ; 

The daylight dieth, even as thou art dying, 

And bitter loneliness my poor life fills. 

Oh, darling ! I have watched thee fading, fading, 

As fadeth now the light ; 
Before the morning glow the earth is shading 

It will be over. Oh, my own, good-night ! 

Kiss me good-morning! bid me not ' ' good-night !" 

I know the shadows of the earthly night are falling, 
But I perceive no shadows in the light 

Of the wide-open gates. Angels are calling ; 
I see them fill my room ! 

I know the Eternal Day is dawning ! 
Passing forever from the mist and gloom, 

Say not " good-night !" bid me good-morning ! 

From the German. 



EMOTIONAL POEMS. 



*53 



ONLY. 

Only a baby, 

Kissed and caressed, 

Gently held to a mother's breast. 

Only a child, 

Toddling alone, 

Brightening now its happy home. 

Only a boy, 

Trudging to school, 
Governed now by sterner rule. 

Only a youth, 

Living in dreams, 

Full of promise life now seems. 

Only a man, 

Battling with life, 

Shared in now by loving* wife. 

Only a father, 

Burdened with care, 

Silvered threads in dark-brown hair. 

Only a graybeard, 
Toddling again, 
Growing old and full of pain. 

Only a mound, 

O'ergrown with grass, 

Dreams unrealized, — rest at last. 

Chicago Tribune. 



*54 



EMOTIONAL POEMS. 



OVERCAST. 



A little cloud came into the noon, 

And darkened the whole broad daylight soon ; 

Far flew the shadows across the plain, 

And the golden morning has set in rain. 

A little cloud came into our noon, 
And darkened the love of a lifetime soon ; 
We never shall find our faith again, 
For the golden morning has set in rain. 

Harper's Weekly 



TIDES. 



Oh, patient shore, that canst not go to meet 
Thy love, the restless sea, how comfortest 
Thou all thy loneliness ? Art thou at rest 
When, loosing his strong arms from round thy feet, 
He turns away ? Knowest thou, however sweet 
That other shore may be, that to thy breast 
He must return? And when, in sterner test, 
He folds thee to a heart which does not beat, 
Wraps thee in ice, and gives no smile, no kiss, 
To break long wintry days, still dost thou miss 
Naught from thy trust ? still wait, unfaltering, 
The higher, warmer waves which leap in spring? 
Oh, sweet, wise shore, to be so satisfied ! 
Oh, Heart, learn from the shore : love has a tide ! 

H. H. 



EMOTIONAL POEMS. 



J 55 



DRAWING WATER. 

He had drunk from founts of pleasure, 

And his thirst returned again ; 
He had hewn out broken cisterns, 

And, behold ! his work was vain. 

And he said, " Life is a desert, 

Hot and measureless and dry, 
And God will not give me water, 

Though I strive and faint and die." 

Then he heard a voice make answer, 

" Rise and roll the stone away ; 
Sweet and precious things lie hidden 

In thy pathway every day." 

And he said — his heart was sinful ; 

Very sinful was his speech — 
"All the cooling wells I thirst for 

Are too deep for me to reach." 

But the voice cried, " Hope and labor, 

Doubt and idleness is death ; 
Shape a clear and goodly vessel 

With the patient hands of faith." 

So he wrought and shaped the vessel, 
Looked, and lo ! a well was there ; 

And he drew up living water 

With the golden chain of prayer. 

Phcebe Cary. 



56 EMOTIONAL POEMS. 



WRECK. 



" By the laws of the Rhodians, divers were allowed a share 
of the wreck in proportion to the depth to which they had gone 
in search of it." 

So many fathoms deep my sweet ship lies 

No ripple marks the place. The gulls' white wings 
Pause not ; the boatman idly sleeps or sings 

Floating above ; and smile to smile, with skies 

That bend and shine, the sunny water vies. 
Too heavy freight and of too costly things 
My sweet ship bore. No tempest's mutterings 

Warned me, but in clear noon, before my eyes, 
She sudden faltered, rocked, and, with each sail 

Full set, went down ! 

O Heart ! in divers' mail 

Wrap thee. Breathe not till, standing on her deck, 

Thou hast confronted all thy loss and wreck. 

Poor coward Heart, — thou darest not plunge ! For 
thee 

There lies no other pearls in any sea. 

H. H. 



A MOTHER'S HEART. 

A little dreaming, such as mothers know ; 

A little lingering over dainty things ; 
A happy heart, wherein hope, all aglow, 

Stirs like a bird at dawn that wakes and sings — 
And that is all. 



EMOTIONAL POEMS. 



*57 



A little clasping to her yearning breast; 

A little musing over future years ; 
A heart that prays, "Dear Lord, thou knovvest best, 

But spare my flower life's bitterest rain of tears !" — 
And that is all. 

A little spirit spreading through the night ; 

A little home grown lonely, dark, and chill ; 
A sad heart groping blindly for the light ; 

A little snow-clad grave beneath the hill — 
And that is all. 

A little gathering of life's broken thread ; 
A little patience keeping back the tears ; 
A heart that sings, " Thy darling is not dead : 
God keeps her safe through His eternal years !" — 
And that is all. 

MacMillarfs Magazine. 



THE SHADOWS IN THE VALLEY. 

There's a mossy, shady valley 

Where the waters wind and flow, 
And the daisies sleep in winter 

'Neath a coverlet of snow, 
And violets, blue-ey'd violets, 

Bloom in beauty in the spring, 
And the sunbeams kiss the wavelets 

Till they seem to laugh and sing. 
14 



EMOTIONAL POEMS. 

But in autumn, when the sunlight 

Crowns the cedar-covered hill, 
Shadows darken in the vallev, 

Shadows ominous and still ; 
And the yellow leaves, like banners 

O'er an elfin host that's fled, 
Ting'd with gold and royal purple, 

Flutter sadly overhead. 

And those shadows, gloomy shadows, 

Like dim phantoms on the ground, 
Stretch their dreary lengths forever 

On a daisy-covered mound; 
And I loved her, yes, I loved her, 

But the angels loved her too, 
So she's sleeping in the valley 

'Neath the sky so bright and blue. 

And no slab of pallid marble 

Rears its white and ghastly head, 
Telling wanderers in the valley 

Of the virtues of the dead ; 
But a lily is her tombstone, 

And a dew-drop, dark and bright, 
Is the epitaph an angel 

Wrote in the stillness of the night. 

And I'm mournful, very mournful, 
For my soul doth ever crave 

For the fading of the shadows 
From that little woodland grave ; 



EMOTIONAL POEMS. 



159 



For the memory of the loved one 

From my soul will never part, 
And those shadows in the valley 

Dim the sunshine in my heart. 

Philadelphia Evening B idle tin. 



IN MEMORIAM. 

A victor has gone forth 
From Life's great battle-field ; 
Christ's cross her sword and shield, 

She has gone forth. 

A victor has gone forth, 
Though brief her summons came ; 
Thank God ! she bore His name, 

And so went forth. 

From sin and death set free, 
Strong in a Saviour's grace, 
To meet a Saviour's face, — 

Victor eternally. 



A TRUST. 



E. 



When the dark day shall come that I lie dead, 
And friends shall silent stand by my cold bed, 
I want that you should bid the last adieu, 
And press on my pale brow a kiss so true 
That I shall feel it even in my grave. 



160 EMOTIONAL POEMS. 

I want you should bend low to brush aside, 
With loving touch, my hair. Naught shall divide 
My heart from yours then ; tho' my lips be dumb, 
I shall yet whisper to you softly, " Come !" 

And you shall hear, tho' I be in my grave. 

For answer, you shall throw the "dust to dust" 
Down on my earthly resting-place. This trust 
I leave you, dear; then I shall feel and know 
That when the Last Day's trumpets blaze and blow 
Together we shall rise from out the grave ! 

G. DE B., in the New York Evening Mail. 



THE NEW NAME. 

What shall I call her when we meet? 

She knew no other name on earth 
Than that which mothers find so sweet, 

Though words be cold and little worth : 
" Our baby" seemed a name complete. 

But now, so many years have flown 
Since from my tearful gaze she passed, 

How shall I, in the great Unknown, 
Amazed, where all is strange and vast, 

How shall I there reclaim my own ? 

What sweet, rare title does she bear? 

For, when I meet her on that shore, 
Grown wise, and great as she is fair, 

" My baby" I can say no more, 
For I shall be the infant there. 

H. E. Warner. 



EMOTIONAL POEMS. 161 



A GERMAN FAREWELL SONG. 

Many stars are in the sky ; 
Many sheep together lie 
In the quiet meadow ; 

Many birds about us fly, 
And as many times I'll sigh, 
"Fare you well, my treasure !" 

Shall we, after long, dull years, 
Many sorrows, many fears, 
Meet again, my treasure? 

Every morn, while you're away, 
Soon as I awake, I'll say, 
" Oh, return, my treasure !" 

At the close of every day, 
Ere I shut my eyes, I'll pray, 
" Heaven preserve my treasure !" 

If it must be so, when lying 

On my death-bed, I'll, when dying, 

Think of thee, my treasure ! 

Unknown. 



H 



1 62 EMOTIONAL POEMS. 



A MESSAGE. 

For one to bear my message I looked out 

In haste at noon. The bee and the swallow passed, 

Bound south. My message was to south. I cast 

It, trusting as a mariner, no doubt, 

Sweet bee, sweet swallow, in my heart about 

Your fellowship. 

The stealthy night came fast. 
" Oh, chilly night," I said, "no friend thou hast 
For me, and morn is far," when, lo ! a shout 
Of joy, and, riding up, as one rides late, 
My friend fell on my neck, just in the gate. 
"You got my message?" 

"No message, sweet, 
Save my own eyes' desire your eyes to meet." 
"You saw no swallow, and no bee, before 
You came?" 

" I do remember : past my door 
There brushed a bird and bee, sweeter presage 
Than I had dreamed ! You sent me, then, a message ?' 

H. H. 



EMOTIONAL POEMS. 163 



A DOUBTING HEART. 

Where are the swallows fled ? 

Frozen and dead, 
Perchance, upon some bleak and stormy shore. 
Oh, doubting heart ! 
Far over purple seas 
They wait, in sunny ease, 
The balmy Southern breeze 
To bring them to their Northern home once more. 

Why must the flowers die? 

Prisoned they lie 
In the cold tomb, heedless of tears or rain. 
Oh, doubting heart ! 
They only sleep below 
The soft, white ermine snow 
While winter winds shall blow, 
To breathe and smile upon you soon again. 

The sun has hid its rays 
These many days : 
Will weary hours never leave the earth ? 
Oh, doubting heart ! 
The stormy clouds on high 
Veil the same sunny sky 
That soon (for spring is nigh) 
Shall wake the summer into golden mirth. 



1 64 EMOTIONAL POEMS. 

Fair hope is dead, and light 

Is quenched in night : 
What sound can break the silence of despair? 
Oh, doubting heart ! 
The sky is overcast, 
Yet stars shall rise at last, 
Brighter for darkness past, 
And angels' silver voices stir the air. 

Adelaide A. Procter. 



AFTER THE STORM. 

All night, in the pauses of sleep, I heard 

The moan of the snow, wind, and the sea, 
Like the wail of thy sorrowing children, O God ! 
Who cry unto Thee. 

But in beauty and silence the morning broke ; 

O'erflowing creation the glad light streamed, 
And earth stood shining and white as the souls 
Of the blessed redeemed. 

Oh, glorious marvel in darkness wrought ! 

With smiles of promise the blue sky bent, 
As if to whisper to all who mourn 
Love's hidden intent. 

Living Age. 



EMOTIONAL POEMS. 165 



THREE VISIONS. 

Three visions in the watches of one night 
Made sweet my sleep, almost too sweet to tell : 
One was Narcissus by a wood-side well, 
And on the moss his limbs and feet were white; 
And one Queen Venus, blown for my delight 
Across the blue sea in a rosy shell ; 
And one a lean Aquinas in his cell, 
Kneeling, his pen in hand, with aching sight 
Strained towards a carven Christ; and of these three 
I knew not which was fairest. First I turned 
Towards that soft boy, who laughed and fled from me ; 
Towards Venus then, and she smiled once and she 
Fled also ; then, with teeming heart, I yearned, 
O Angel of the Schools ! towards Christ with thee. 

Unknown. 



ONLY A CHILD'S VOICE. 

It was only a child's voice, low and sweet, 

That came floating down through the village street; 

Through the village street, with green aisles dim, 
Floated the beautiful, quaint old hymn. 

The sun was sinking low down in the west, 
With crimson bars lying over his breast, 



1 66 EMOTIONAL POEMS. 

And all the sky on that side was aflame, 

While slow through the other the twilight came, 

Wrapping the earth in a shadowy mist 
Of cool, soft gray, and of amethyst, 

As she leaned out over the casement wide, 
Singing on in the purpling eventide. 

Through the arching pathway it stole along, 
Filling the space with melodious song. 

How long I listened I never could tell, 

To the sweet, clear voice as it rose and fell ; 

But to me it seemed, as I lingered there, 
Like the benediction which follows prayer. 

And the God who heareth the weakest pray 
Perhaps took her song for my prayer that day, 

As into my heart a great longing stole 
For such peace and rest to my weary soul. 

And 'twas only this child's voice, low and sweet, 
Which brought me that night to my Saviour's feet, 

And humbly before Him to kneel and say, 
" Let me come as a child to Thee, I pray." 

M. R. H., in the Church Journa. 



EMOTIONAL POEMS. 167 



"GOD KNOWS." 

Oh ! wild and dark was the winter night 

When the emigrant-ship went down 
But just outside of the harbor-bar, 

In the sight of the startled town ! 
The winds howled, and the sea roared, 

And never a soul could sleep, 
Save the little ones on their mothers' breasts, 

Too young to watch and weep. 

No boat could live in the angry surf, 

No rope could reach the land ; 
There were bold, brave hearts upon the shore, 

There was many a ready hand : 
Women who prayed and men who strove 

When prayers and work were vain, 
For the sun rose over the awful void 

And the silence of the main ! 

All day the watches paced the sands, 

All day they scanned the deep, 
All night the booming minute-guns 

Echoed from steep to steep. 
" Give up thy dead, O cruel sea !" 

They cried athwart the space ; 
But only a baby's fragile form 

Escaped from its stern embrace. 



168 EMOTIONAL POEMS. 

Only one little child of all 

Who with the ship went down 
That night, when the happy babies slept 

So warm in the sheltered town ! 
Wrapped in the glow of the morning light, 

It lay on the shifting sand, 
As fair as a sculptor's marble dream, 

With a shell in its dimpled hand. 

There were none to tell of its race or kin ; 

" God knoweth," the pastor said, 
When the sobbing children crowded to ask 

The name of the baby dead. 
And so, when they laid it away at last 

In the church-yard's hushed repose, 
They raised a stone at the baby's head, 

With the carven words, " God knows !" 

Julia C. R. Dorr, in St. Nicholas. 



REQUIEM. 

Lowly, shining head, 
Where we lay thee down 

With the lowly dead, 
Drop thy golden crown. 

Meekly, marble palms, 
Fold across the breast, 

Sculptured in white calms 
Of unbreaking rest. 



EMOTIONAL POEMS. 169 

Softly, starry eyes, 

Veil your darkened spheres, 
Nevermore to rise 

In summer shine or tears. 

Calmly, crescent lips, 

Yield your dewy rose 
To the wan eclipse 

Of this pale repose. 

Slumber, aural shells, 

No more dying; even 
Through your spiral cells 

Weaveth gales of heaven. 

Stilly, slender feet, 

Rest from rosy rhyme 
With the ringing sweet 

Of her silver chime. 

Holy smile of God ! 

Spread thy glory mild 
Underneath the sod 

On this little child. 

Julia Russell McMasters. 



15 



iyo EMOTIONAL POEMS. 



SONG. 

The clover-blossoms kiss her feet, 

She is so sweet, 
While I, who may not kiss her hand, 
Bless all the wild flowers in the land. 

Soft sunshine falls across her breast, 

She is so blest, — 
I'm jealous of its arms of gold, — 
Oh, that these arms her form might fold ! 

Gently the breezes kiss her hair, 

. She is so fair ; 
Let flowers and sun and breeze go by, 
O dearest ! Love me or I die ! 

Oscar Laighton, in Celia Thaxter's Poems. 



SWEETHEART OF MINE, FARE- 
WELL!" 

Sweetheart of mine, farewell ! 
Only our hearts can tell 

Our woe ; 
Only our memories, fraught 
With sorrow's load of thought, 

Can know 
Our grief and woe. 



EMOTIONAL POEMS. 

Sweetheart of mine, good-by ! 
The past for you and I 

Is dead ; 
The future, blank and drear, 
Hath naught for us of cheer; 

Instead, 
Sorrow and fear. 

Sweetheart of mine, adieu ! 
Still as of old be true, 

And trust 
Till, at our journey's end, 
Our souls again shall blend, 

Our dust 
As one ascend. 
From the German of Ed. Abbot. 



171 



PARTING. 



If thou dost bid thy friend farewell, 

But for one night though that farewell may be, 

Press thou his hand in thine. 

How canst thou tell how far from thee 

Fate or caprice may lead his steps ere that to-morrow 

comes ? 
Men have been known to lightly turn the corner of a 

street, 
And days have grown to months, 
And months to lagging years, ere they have looked in 

loving eyes again. 



i 7 2 EMOTIONAL POEMS. 

Parting, at best, is underlaid 

With tears and pain. 

Therefore, lest sudden death should come between, 

Or time, or distance, clasp with pressure firm the hand 

Of him who goeth forth : 

Unseen, Fate goeth too. 

Yea, and thou always time to say some earnest word 

Between the idle talk, lest with thee henceforth, 

Night and day, regret should talk. 

Unknown. 



SONG. 

My Peer's face, mv Pesev's form, 
The frost of hermit age might warm ; 
Mv Pes^v's worth, mv Pesrsr's mind, 
Might charm the first of human kind. 
I love my Peggy's angel air, 
Her face so truly heavenly fair, 
Her native grace so void of art, 
But I adore my Peggy's heart. 

The lily's hue, the rose's dye, 
The kindling lustre of an eye, — 
Who but owns their magic sway, 
Who but knows they all decay ! 
The tender thrill, the pitying tear, 
The generous purpose nobly dear, 
The gentle look that rage disarms, — 
These are all immortal charms. 

Robert Burns. 



EMOTIONAL POEMS. 173 



Think truly, and thy thoughts 
Shall the world's famine feed; 

Speak truly, and each word of thine 
Shall be a fruitful seed ; 

Give truly, and thy life shall be 
A great and noble creed. 



HEAVEN. 



Beyond these chilling winds and gloomy skies 

Beyond Death's cloudy portal, 
There is a land where beauty never dies 

And love becomes immortal, — 

A land whose light is never dimmed by shade, 

Whose fields are ever vernal, 
Where nothing beautiful can fade, 

But blooms for aye, eternal. 

We know not now how sweet its balmy air, 

How bright and fair its flowers ; 
We may not hear the songs that echo there 

Through those enchanted bowers ; 

The city's shining towers we may not see 

With our dim earthly vision, 
For Death, the silent warder, keeps the key 

That opes those gates elysian ; 

15* 



i 7 4 EMOTIONAL POEMS. 

But sometimes, when adown the Western sky 

The fiery sunset lingers, 
Its golden gates swing inward noiselessly, 

Unlocked by unseen fingers, 

And, while they stand a moment half ajar, 

Gleams from the inner glory 
Stream brightly through the azure vault afar, 

And half reveal the story. 

O land unknown ! O land of life divine ! 

Father, all-wise, eternal, 
Guide, guide these wandering, way-worn feet of mine 

Into those pastures vernal ! 

Nancy A. Sweet. 



GUARDIAN ANGELS. 

When daylight has departed and earth is hushed to 

rest, 
When little birds are folded safe within the parent 

nest, 
When on the closed flowers the blessed night-dews 

weep, 
And stars look down in beauty upon the slumbering 

deep, 

Unseen by mortal eyes, in the stillness of the night, 
There are those who wander o'er the earth in robes of 

airy light ; 
Sweet messengers of love and hope, they journey to 

and fro, 
And consolation follows in their footsteps as they go. 



EMOTIONAL POEMS. 175 

What are the heart's presentiments of coming joy or 

pain 
But gently-whispering warnings of that guardian angel 

train ? 
The signals of their sympathy, the tokens of their 

care. 
The sighings of their sorrow o'er the ills that flesh 

must bear ! 

We hear them in our slumbers, and waking fancy 

deems 
That busy thought was wandering in the fairy-land of 

dreams ; 
But the low, sweet strains we listed were the strains 

that angels sing 
To tempt our souls to soar ; bright gleams of heaven 

they bring. 

When morning breaks above us, and we wake to busy 

day, 
These angels "go before" to guide and "keep us in 

the way ;" 
When our feeble footsteps falter, all aweary and alone, 
In their arms they gently bear us, "lest we dash 

against a stone." 

In our journeyings, in our restings, on the land or on 

the sea, 
In our solitude and sorrow, in our gatherings and glee, 
In the day of degradation, in the hour of joy and 

pride, 
Those pure and watchful ministers are ever by our side. 



176 EMOTIONAL POEMS. 

Oh, Thou ! whom angels worshipped ere time or we 
began, 

And whose divine compassion gave their guardianship 
to man, 

Throughout this mortal warfare let them still my 
champions be, 

And in the last stern conflict give them '-'charge con- 
cerning me." 

Unknown. 



THE AUTUMN OF LIFE. 

Fling down the faded blossoms of the spring, 
Nor clasp the roses with regretful hand, 

The joy of summer is a vanished thing ; 
Let it depart, and learn to understand 

The gladness of great calm, — the autumn rest, — 

The peace of human joys, the latest and the best. 

Ah, I remember how in early days 

The primrose and the wind-flower grew beside 
My tangled forest-path, whose devious ways 

Filled me with joy of mysteries untried, 
And terror that was more than half delight, 
And sense of budding life, and longings infinite. 

And I remember how, in Life's hot noon, 

Around my path the lavish roses shed 
Color and fragrance, and the air of June 

Breathed rapture. Now those summer days are fled. 
Days of sweet peril, when the serpent lay 
Lurking at every turn of Life's enchanted way. 



EMOTIONAL POEMS. 1 77 

The light of spring, the summer-glow, are o'er, 

.And I rejoice in knowing that for me 
The woodbine and the roses bloom no more ; 

The tender green is gone from field and tree, 
Brown barren sprays stand clear against the blue, 
And leaves fall fast and let the truthful sunlight through. 

For me the hooded herbs of autumn grow, 

Square-stemmed and sober-tinted : mint and sage, 

Horehound and balm, — such plants as healers know. 
And the decline of life's long pilgrimage 

Is soft and sweet with marjoram, and thyme 

Bright with pure evening dew, not serpents' glittering 
slime. 

And round my path the aromatic air 

Breathes health and perfume, and the turfy ground 
Is soft for weary feet, and smooth and fair, 

With little thornless blossoms that abound 
In safe, dry places, where the mountain-side 
Lies to the setting sun and no ill beast can hide. 

What is there to regret ? Why should I mourn 
To leave the forest and the marsh behind, 

Or towards the rank, low meadows sadly turn ? 
Since here another loveliness I find, 

Safer and not less beautiful, and blest 

With glimpses faint and far of the long-wished-for rest. 

Is it an evil to be drawing near 

The time when I shall know as I am known ? 
Is it an evil that the sky grows clear, 

That sunset-light upon my path is thrown ? 
That truth grows fairer, that temptations cease, 
And that I see afar a path that leads to peace? 



178 EMOTIONAL POEMS. 

Is it not joy to feel the lapsing years 
Calm down one's spirit, as at eventide, 

After long storm, the far horizon clears, 

The sky shines golden and the stars subside, 

Stern outlines soften in the sun -lit air, 

And still as dav declines the restful earth stows fair? 

And so I drop the roses from my hand, 

And let the thorn-pricks heal, and take my way, 

Down-hill, across a fair and peaceful land 
Lapt in the golden calm of dying day, 

Glad that the night is near, and glad to know 

That, rough or smooth the way, I have not far to go. 

Salvia, in the Living Age. 



MATER DOLOROSA. 

Because of little low-laid heads all crowned 

With golden hair, 
For evermore all fair young brows to me 

A halo wear ; 
I kiss them reverently, — alas ! I know 

The stains I bear. 

Because of dear but close-shut holy eyes 

Of heaven's own blue, 
All little eyes do fill my own with tears 

Whate'er their hue, 
And, motherly, I gaze their innocent 

Clear depths into. 



EMOTIONAL POEMS. 179 

Because of little pallid lips which once 

My name did call, 
No childish voice in vain appeal upon 

My ear doth fall ; 
I count it all ray joys to share 

And sorrows small. 

Because of little, dimpled, cherished hands 

Which folded lie, 
All little hands henceforth to me do have 

A pleading cry ; 
I clasp them as they were small wandering birds 

Lured home to fly. 

Because of little death-cold feet, for earth's 

Rough roads unmeet, 
I'd journey leagues to save from sin or harm 

Such little feet, 
And count the lowest service done for them 

So sacred, sweet ! 

Mary K. Field. 



TREASURES. 

A curl of dark-brown hair, 
Hid in a locket of gold ; 

A ring set round with pearls, 
Of fashion quaint and old. 

That locket nestles close 

In my bosom night and day; 

That ring — since it left the finger 
Of the dear one far away. 



180 EMOTIONAL POEMS. 

The ring I wear for hope, 
The locket I wear for faith ; 

The heart that throbs beneath them 
Will be true till my day of death. 

Take them both to my lover 
When I am freed from strife ; 

There are many joined by death 
Who might never be one in life. 

Kingswood Clare. 



Yet, though they look so worthless, 
This paper and the flowers, 

They clasp and hold like links of gold 
Memories of jewel hours. 



THE BEST THING IN THE WORLD. 

What's the best thing in the world? 
June-rose by May-dew impearled ; 
Sweet South-wind that means no rain ; 
Truth not cruel to a friend ; 
Pleasure not in haste to end ; 
Beauty not self-decked and curled 
Till its pride is over-plain ; 
Light that never makes you wink; 
Memory that gives no pain; 
Love, when so you're loved again ? 
What's the best thing in the world? 
Something out of it, I think. 

Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 



EMOTIONAL POEMS. 181 



A PASSAGE IN A LIFE. 

At morn he was so happy, and at night 

Heart-broken utterly, quite worn and gray ; 
Upon the garden of his hopes a blight 

Had fall'n, a blight never to pass away. 
A few words turned his soul's peace into strife, 
A brief, sad tale, — a passage in a life, — 

Done in an hour's, told in a minute's, space ; 
But every word cut keenly as a knife, 

Carving deep lines of suffering on his face, 
And scoring bitter memories in his heart. 
He was a strong man, mail-clad, one whose part 

From childhood upwards it had been to bear ; 
But the great God — great God, how good Thou art ! — 

Knew where the weak spot was, and smote him 
there. 

Cornhill Magazine. 



INSCRIPTION FOR A SPRING. 

Whoe'er thou art that stay'st to quaff 

The streams that here from caverns dim 
Arise to fill thy cup, and laugh 

In sparkling beads above the brim, 
In all thy thoughts and words as pure 

As these sweet waters may'st thou be, 
To all thy friends as firm and sure, 

As prompt in all thy charity. 

Chambers' s yournal. 
16 



1 82 EMOTIONAL POEMS. 



ALMOS T. 

Sometime, amid the pauses of our care and strife, 
Comes a solemn yearning for a nobler life, 
For some deeper purpose, for a light divine, 
O'er our darkened pathway some pure star to shine. 

And we almost catch the meaning life portrays; 
Almost lose, in adoration, life's dark days; 
Almost see the end triumphant drawing nigh, — 
See the signs of victory bending from the sky, — 

Almost grasp the secret of eternal things; 
Almost see the gleaming of immortal wings ; 
Almost hear the answer to our longing cry; 
Almost know the wherefore to our ceaseless why ; 

Almost — but hereafter, oh, glad soul of mine ! 
Reap the full fruition of this cross of thine ; 
Know what now but darkly through the glass appears; 
Find the perfect answer to thy woe and tears. 

Courage, then, faint-hearted pilgrim ! With the blest 
At life's weary ending cometh peaceful rest ; 
After life's long supplication heaven is sweet ; 
After life's great tribulation, joy complete ! 

Overland Monthly. 



EMOTIONAL POEMS. 183 



THOUGHT. 

Oh, messenger, art thou the king, or I? 
Thou dalliest outside the palace-gate 
Till on thine idle armor lie the late 
And heavy dews : the morn's bright, scornful eye 
Reminds thee; then in subtle mockery 
Thou smilest at the window where I wait, 
Who bade thee ride for life. In empty state 
My days go on, while false hours prophesy 
Thy quick return. At last, in sad despair, 
I cease to bid thee, leave thee free as air, 
When, lo ! thou stand'st before me glad and fleet, 
And lay'st undreamed-of treasures at my feet. 
Ah, messenger, thy royal blood to buy 
I am too poor. Thou art the king, not I ! 

H. PI., in the Galaxy. 



THE TWO VILLAGES. 

Over the river, on the hill, 
Lieth a village white and still ; 
All around it the forest-trees 
Shiver and whisper in the breeze ; 
Over it sailing shadows go 
Of soaring hawk and screaming crow, 
And mountain-grasses low and sweet 
Grow in the middle of every street. 



1 84 EMOTIONAL POEMS. 

Over the river, under the hill, 
Another village lieth still. 
There I see in the cloudy night 
Twinkling stars of household light, 
Fires that gleam from the smithy's door, 
Mists that curl on the river-shore ; 
And in the roads no grasses grow 
For the wheels that hasten to and fro. 

In that village on the hill 

Never is sound of smithy or mill ; 

The houses are thatched with grasses and flowers; 

Never a clock to toll the hours; 

The marble doors are always shut, 

You cannot enter in hall or hut ; 

All the villagers lie asleep, 

Never a grain to sow or reap, 

Never in dreams to moan or sigh, 

Silent, and idle, and low they lie. 

In that village under the hill, 

When the night is starry and still, 

Many a weary soul in prayer 

Looks to the other village there, 

And, weeping and sighing, longs to go 

Up to that home from this below, 

Longs to sleep in the forest-wild, 

Whither have vanished wife and child, 

And heareth, praying, this answer fall, 

" Patience ! That village shall hold ye all !" 

Rose Terry. 



EMOTIONAL POEMS. 187 



PRAYER. 

More things are wrought by prayer 

Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voice 

Rise like a fountain for me night and day ; 

For what are men better than sheep or goats, 

That nourish a blind life within the brain, 

If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer 

Both for themselves and those who call them friends ? 

For so the whole round earth is every way 

Bound by gold chains about the feet of God. 

Tennyson. 



the END. 



